The Dragon's Lament
by Elven Ink
Summary: **COMPLETE** Dragons are fire incarnate — they do not grieve the loss of men. But when Jorah died in her arms, Daenerys' own wails of sorrow were accompanied by the grief of Drogon. The God of Death has declared war on the Dragon Queen by taking her trusted knight from her, but she has no intention of losing Jorah. Not today.
1. Chapter 1

**_CHAPTER 1_**

**_-Daenerys-_**

What had brought her here?

_Faith_. That is what Daenerys Targaryen had told herself, was it not? It was not faith in gods or magic that brought her here. It was not a love for a man, nor a simply the desire to rule these lands — though that desire burned the brightest in her heart. It was faith in herself that had brought her to this moment, tearing through rules and tradition, burning down injustice and breaking age-old systems wrought of chains and golden coins.

For one cold, poignant moment, however, Daenerys' faith had slipped from her grasp. Faith in herself had done little to shield her from the nightmare of darkness and death around her. It did not block the sounds of her child screaming in agony as countless undead creatures clambered and clawed across him, forcing him to writhe and lurch in the skies above her. It did not bring some wondrous agility to her legs to allow her to flee this graveyard of a battlefield. It did not shield her from the loathsome creature lurching towards her, sword scraping along the ground and slicing through a carpet of corpses, both its own fallen comrades and her Dothraki, her Unsullied, Northern banner-men and their fallen horses.

Faith had no place in this battlefield. She demanded her legs to move, but they had frozen in a crumpled heap beneath her. She commanded her arms to move, to shield her in vain, but they refused. Her mouth ran dry, her tongue unable to form the word she wanted to scream in hopes Drogon would hear her and bring a deluge of dragonfire from above to rescue her.

In this moment, Daenerys was back where she began. Without her dragons. Without her people. Without a weapon. She was alone.

Steel sung through the air, the sound clouding her own sharp intake of breath as the undead soldier's head thudded to the ground. Her heart may have hoped Jon Snow had heard the cries of Drogon and returned for her, but her head knew there was only one person who would cross hell itself to find her. The hand that grabbed her arm was rough, but she had never been more grateful to be hauled to her feet. Daenerys was no fool — the presence of her bear knight would not guarantee her survival. He had been the first to charge into this god-forsaken battle, and even now as they all but scrambled from the rising dead, she could see exhaustion lowering Jorah's sword arm, the limp slowing his pace, the blood prickling in his eyes as he tried to blink and wipe it away.

No, Jorah would not guarantee her survival here. But there was no man in Westeros who would fight harder for it.

After all, what had brought _him _here? No sane man could fight for as long as he had on love alone. Plenty of men had claimed their hearts were hers, and plenty had left her side unguarded when it became clear the offering would not become an exchange. Unspoken, both she and Jorah knew well that his heart still lay at her feet, but something more had grown between them in recent years.

The word rung in her head, both reassuring and terrifying all at once:

_Faith._

She had not returned his love, but she would join the Night King's army before she let his faith in her go unanswered. As he cut down the Night King's warriors left and right of them, the queen quickly found a fallen sword from the carnage at their feet; it was too heavy for her, and felt unnatural in her hand, but she steadied it well enough. A blade was not her preferred weapon, but Daenerys was no stranger to wielding a sword. Her whole life had been an endless war — what fool would not ask her knighted advisors to train her in the basics of swordsmanship?

Ah, but how far away the dusty courtyards of Qaarth seemed now, with the sickening crunch of the fallen underfoot knocking her every step. What lifetime had passed since she, having only just become accustom to the powers of a queen, demanded lessons in swordsmanship from a wholly reluctant Ser Jorah? How many times had she admonished him since those days, when his constant apologies for tapping her arm with the flat of his blade to show her where she had let her guard down had grated on her patience?

Gods, how far they had come. Gods, how a part of her, small and quiet, wished they could go back to those days.

The dead around them would not know mercy from the Dragon Queen for this wishful thinking though. Teeth bared, she plunged the blade into one, two, and another. They fell at her feet, joining the piles of fallen soldiers her knight brought down in turn. Her battle cry followed her blade, but the dead kept rising upon them. Where she and Jorah were tiring, the blue-eyed demons were not. One turn, too slow, brought a blade slashing across Jorah's side. His attention was split between his own defences and covering Daenerys' own — it wasn't long before an undead saw this weakness to exploit and leapt upon the knight's back, arms around his throat. With a cry, she cut the assailant down, freeing Jorah in time for him to take down yet another that had darted forward towards the Queen.

His left flank unguarded, a blade burrowed into his side before Daenerys could bring her sword to the creature's face. Her heart shivered to a stop, plummeting cold as Jorah fell to one knee. But he allowed himself only this heartbeat before getting back to his feet with her help, unsteadily but upright all the same. Jorah's eyes were fixed on the growing swarm surrounding them, and other than his brief fall he had not seemed to register the wound at all.

The onslaught continued, Daenerys' yells quickly descending into primal roars tangled in fear and desperation, her already unpolished swordsmanship becoming a flurried frenzy for survival, the hoard around them waning under the fury of the dragon and the bear.

Another strike brought her weary knight to his knees once more, and she looked away for but a moment in order to help haul him back to his feet again. No sooner had Dany's hands grasped his arm, however, than Jorah shoved his arm back, having only the strength left to roughly knock her behind him.

Then she heard that awful sound: steel biting through steel, and a reprise of a now-blood coated blade tearing out of Jorah's chest. Daenerys managed to regain her footing and brought down the fiend whose blade had sought her knight's heart, with Jorah able to sluggishly bring his own Valyrian steel blade up into the skull of another. This bought the pair a brief moment of reprieve, the silence broken only by Jorah burying Heartsbane into the ground in order to use the sword as a crutch to bring himself agonisingly to his feet again.

Daenerys reached out to steady him again as he swayed, his eyes glazed and unfocused, face caked in blood, sweat, and dirt. She had seen Jorah's unrelenting energy in battle before, and his staggering inability to give up while he still had a sword in his hand had often factored in to her strategies. But how, _how _was he still on his feet now? Any one of the blades he had shielded her from should have been fatal, though she dared not think it lest she seem insolent of this miracle keeping her knight alive.

How quickly Daenerys learnt that it was no miracle. Somewhere, unseen to them, the Night King had fallen. His thralls quickly followed suit, crumbling to dust and ice around them, leaving Daenerys and Jorah standing in a field barren of life, save for them.

No sooner had the last undead faded did Jorah's strength fade too. It was as if the only thing that moved his broken and bloodied body beyond his numerous wounds was the sole purpose of protecting his Queen. The moment this task was complete, the knight collapsed to his knees for the final time, crumpling to the ground.

In unison, what little was left of Daenerys' composure shattered as grief and disbelief poured through her veins, robbing her of her fire and drowning her heart in an impossibly cold dread.

Dragging her fallen knight into her arms, the Dragon Queen did nothing to stem the tears that cascaded freely, the sobs and wails that built in her throat. Men would die in this battle, she had known this. Of course, she had known this. She knew that blades and war did not care who was who — and yet, some naive part of her that had survived the ordeals of her life had thought her bear knight would always return to her side. The little part of her heart that still believed in stories of knights and princesses, the part she had thought had been long since burned away when the cruelties of the world had forged her anew.

He always returned to her. He _always _had…

Daenerys wanted to speak, but what could she say? If she commanded Jorah to stay, if she gave him to ridiculous command to live, no doubt he would fight off the cold hands of Death until it tore his limbs apart and dragged him from the world. But all of her words crumbled to stammers of weeping for the agony in his clouded eyes, already losing focus.

Jorah whispered something, a breath ragged and broken, but every last spark of his strength had been given in shielding her, and he had nothing left. And then, even that last, exhausted breath was gone, and her knight moved no more.

* * *

The war was won, and yet, the victory did not strike Daenerys' heart. Though she was seated at the head of the table, an impromptu war-room created from one of the few least-damaged structures within Winterfell, the voices around her were but a drone. She was not, it seemed, immune to grief after all. Though she had thought her heart knew well the pain of it through its countless encounters with that numbing stranglehold, here it was again at her doorstep. An unwanted guest.

Lilac eyes flicked to her Hand, having noted a sudden pause in discussion and feeling the Lannister's eyes pressing against her, waiting for a response.

She did not insult him with a feigned reply of understanding. Tyrion's sharp wits would cut through such dishonesty in a heartbeat. Instead, she rose from the table, causing a ripple along the room as others got to their feet in reflection of their Queen. Not that many were present, with the majority bedridden, resting or — gone.

"Forgive me...my strength for battle regrettably pales in comparison to the men and women you speak of," Daenerys said instead, a truth if nothing else. She may have missed the discussion, but few such conversations in the wake of the battle had not touched upon their numerous losses. At last count, over half of their combined forces had been cut down by undead blades. Entire Dothraki clans had ended that night, whole houses had been extinguished.

Her Hand bowed, though she caught a glimmer of sympathy in Tyrion's mismatched gaze before his head dipped.

"Of course, Your Grace. You must still be weary from your own part in the battle — this discussion can wait. But, if I may advise Your Grace," Tyrion straightened up, not one to remain bowed under the Queen's gaze. It was partly why she had chosen him to be her Hand. It was partly why she regretted that choice. "We need to discuss the damages to our numbers before we entertain the thought of marching on King's Landing. Our numbers may have dwindled, but I have no doubt in my mind that my sister will have—"

"Your sister?" Daenerys' scoffing remark came far colder than intended, but she had left her grace and pandering for nobles somewhere on the battlefield, along with her patience. "Your _sister _is nothing more than a false queen. We have destroyed a king born of darkness and death, found victory in a war that _prophets _claimed could not be conquered by the living. Your sister can summon _nothing _that comes close to what we have faced. The sooner she is naught but ashes, the better."

With that, she turned on her heel and made to leave. Perhaps she was being reckless, but this inhuman war they had all found themselves a part of had inevitably left poison and anger pent up and boiling within her. For her losses, Daenerys wished it had been her to plunge a dragonglass blade into the Night King's heart. She would make do with cremating the unworthy snake coiled on her throne.

Before she had reached the door, she heard Tyrion's footsteps.

"Your Grace, I know you think this battle must be trivial compared to the Night King, but we mustn't underestimate her. If you would allow me the time to—"

The Dragon Queen whirled upon the lion.

"Time? For whom? For us to bolster our forces, or for _her_ to?"

Her snapping rebuke was bitter on her tongue, as she recalled one of the last conversations she had had with Jorah. He had wanted her to forgive Tyrion, to trust him. Usually, Daenerys would inclined to follow his words, even if they jarred against her personal preference toward a situation. Usually, her wise bear was right. But despite this, and despite the circumstances, she found herself unable to honour his final piece of advice. Something in her gut told her her Hand was not to be fully trusted until Cersei breathed her last. Something in her mind whispered of the third betrayal yet to come…

She stared down at the man in spite of Tyrion's darkening glower, a familiar sight these days as Daenerys' cutting words struck him more frequently. Daenerys could see the frustration in his expression, no doubt wondering what he could do to prove himself trustworthy. But that was not for her to answer, and in this silence, she turned for the exit once more, letting the wooden door rattle shut behind her. She managed but a few steps before a voice behind the door brought her to pause.

"Never mind the battle with Cersei," Davos' gruff and blunt tones hummed through the door behind her, "you'll have a battle on your hands getting her to see reason."

"...I rather think I lost that battle some time ago," Tyrion's sighing response was laced in exhaustion, and Daenerys heard the scrape of a chair. "She barely trusts _me, _let alone my words. I can convince a king not to go to war, but I daresay convincing a dragon not to breath fire is a little beyond my repertoire. There's only one man in the world who I witnessed managing that, and the last time he was absent from her side, we established '_death by dragonfire_' as a new and apparently reasonable method of public execution."

The bitterness in his voice, along with the manner in which these men were discussing her method of rule nearly brought Dany storm back to the room, but she exercised a beat of patience. If only to spite them in proving she wasn't as wholly reckless as they seemed to believe.

"Ser Jorah did have a talent for tempering the Queen's fury, it's true," a voice running too-smooth and sickly sweet trailed under the door, "but alas, that door is..._closed_."

How did Varys always manage to speak as though he knew _every _little detail, Daenerys wondered, as his apparently-coincidental choice of words managed to make her freeze up further in silence.

A long pause settled, before a single, dropped word duly bludgeoned the silence with all the elegance of a drunkard staggering into an inn.

"...**_Bollocks_**."

"...For want of a better phrase, I would have to agree with you, Ser Davos."

"No, I...er..." The Onion Knight tripped on his words, clearly toying with something he both wished, and did not wish, to speak about. Frowning, Daenerys crept closer to the door — it wasn't the first time the man had backtracked on a strange outburst. Both he and Jon had been quick to dismiss his phrase that the self-styled King in the North had _'taken a blade to the heart'_. Though she had pressed the matter further with Jon since, no amount of their growing trust and connection seemed to break through to unearth this secret.

"Well, it's just...might've been useful if that bloody Red Woman hadn't flung herself out to die in the snow after all — _Gods_ forgive me for sayin' so because no woman's walked Westeros who didn't deserve to die more than her for what she's done."

"Melisandre?" The name came with a quiver of fear from Varys; another strangeness that Dany kept tucked away for future use. "What of her?"

After another, prolonged pause in which Dany could visualise in great detail poor Ser Davos shifting uncomfortably under the scrutinising gazes of both Tyrion and Varys, stubbed fingers no doubt twisting in his beard, but the man finally relented.

"She — and this goes no further than this room, because if Jon knows _you_ know, the rest of my fingers'll be the direwolf's supper — she...I once saw her bring...well, I don't know what she did really, but...well, Jon Snow, he was dead. Dead for days. Saw it with my own eyes."

Daenerys felt her face drop, the frown untangling and her lips parting in shock. Ser Davos could be trusted with a great many things. The blunt and unrelenting truth was one of those things. She had no reason to believe the man was lying; after all, what use would it be to him to do so now? Plus, Dany of all people knew this magic was indeed possible. That it could be done quite so successfully was, however, new to her.

"He can't have been _terribly _dead, Ser Davos. You might have noticed him wandering around the castle." Tyrion's dry response sounded.

"He was _dead_, I'm tellin' you. Cold and blue and **_dead_**. And she...well, I don't know what she did exactly, but she brought him back to life."

"And you didn't think this would be useful to know _before _we started building funeral pyres for those that fell against the Night King?" Tyrion responded, incredulous both in this information being withheld but also in clear disbelief of Davos' claims.

"Wouldn't matter if I did or didn't. She's gone. After the battle, she walked out into the snow and—"

Daenerys didn't wait to hear the rest of his words. She was already dashing through the ruined halls, pushing past haggard-looking and overly-tired Northerners already set to work repairing the castle, tripping over debris and slipping on the snow she was still not quite accustomed to.

The Red Woman was all but a stranger to her really, but her mysterious nature only led credence to the idea that perhaps she held such powers. Was it so ridiculous then to believe the woman might not be dead at all? Could a follower of fire survive out in the cold wastes of the North?

As the Dragon Queen burst out of the front archways, snow crunching underfoot, nothing greeted her but an eye-watering bright blast of ivory-white, the snow sparkling as the broken night gave way to daylight. Broken battlements, a few fallen soldiers still being moved off the battlefield, but no sight of ruby among the snow. Daenerys walked out further, arms wrapping around herself against the bitter cold as she searched through the snow for this impossible hope.

Nothing. Footsteps, half-filled by snow that had been gently falling in the last few hours, led outwards, but stopped abruptly. The hope had not truly had chance to root in Dany's heart, and for that, she was glad. For certainly it would have been enough to bring tears to her eyes once more, and she did not think she had the strength left to grieve again. She remained for the moment, standing out in the cold, her black garb cutting a deep wound against the otherwise almost-serene landscape. Lilac eyes gazed out, not really watching the world around her, rather, looking through her memories.

Ser Jorah was gone. She could not deny that the man had a knack for removing the veil of anger that often clouded her judgement of late, of not only advising her, but explaining and teaching her of these new approaches to problems that she could better understand any and all situations a queen may be presented with. With the rush of adrenaline now ebbing away, Daenerys' mind cleared enough to think — even if she had found the red witch out in the snow, would she really ask her to bring her knight back to life? Years may have passed, but she would never forget her how the maegi had twisted blood spell, killing Dany's unborn child and bringing Drogo back in body, but not in mind. She could never trust the magic of another, that much she had learnt.

From now on, Daenerys would make these choices alone. The idea, more than it scared her, filled her heart with sorrow. She had not considered the idea of ruling alone, not truly alone. She knew well that beneath the crown, many heads ruled a kingdom in truth. But whose council remained that she could completely trust?

Bringing her from her reverie, a glint of crimson jolted Daenerys' spirit up in a fool's hope before her rational mind could stop it. Half-showered in snow, a large and prominent ruby gleamed and glittered not far from her left foot. Curious, she knelt down to dig the gemstone up from its frozen bed, and discovered it was attached to an intricate metalwork frame: a choker, one she had seen before adorning the slender pale neck of Melisandre. With the ruby in hand, Daenerys turned the stone over, noting its strange, dull nature. It still caught the light at angles, but oddly, did not seem to hold a brilliance of its own. And yet, it felt slightly warm, like a cinder in the hearth that was but a breath away from being extinguished. Dany had no need for gemstones and trinkets, but found herself oddly drawn to this one.

If the fallen woman's magic was a blessing from fire, Dany thought to herself, then it belonged to the Mother of Dragons. For _her_ to command.


	2. Chapter 2

_**CHAPTER 2**_

_**-Daenerys-**_

Each day that passed brought a renewed lurch of restlessness and impatience for Dany. The look on Ser Davos' face when she had produced the choker to show him had all but confirmed for her that this was indeed the channel of Melisandre's power. There was a fear in the old man's eyes, and a tenseness to his jaw that built a strange sense of common ground between the two of them. He was as nervous of this magic as she was.

"It's not my place to give advice to you, Your Grace," Davos had said, his rough voice softened in understanding, "but if I were, I'd tell you you'd be best throwing that thing back out into the snow. I've seen it do one good thing, but I've seen it cause countless more sins."

Daenerys had smiled, and courteously thanked the man for his words, but she had no doubt that the both of them knew she would do no such thing. Truth be told, she rather believed Ser Davos knew her intent, and held hope that she would succeed. The thought made her question her path — if she attempted this, would she simply be proving to these men that she was not able to rule without another to dampen her potential for ruthlessness?

She disagreed, of course. Ser Jorah was — had been — her guide, that much was true. Daenerys valued his words, perhaps more than her other advisors' words, not merely because he had been around since the start of her conquest.

He hadn't be afraid of what she would become. She didn't see the reflection of fear in his eyes that her father, the Mad King, might be threaded into her words and actions. Where a firm hand may be seen as a powerful trait in monarchs, for Daenerys, it was a constant point of scrutiny for most. A path she ought to be dissuaded from. For her bear, it had simply been a case of pointing out another road to consider, but he would follow her down either she chose.

Had his heart not been quite so vulnerable to her, Daenerys would have made Jorah her Hand. Silently, she believed they both knew this — even if it had, by his own admission, broken his heart.

And therein lay the rub. Plenty of men had claimed to love her, that their love was true enough for them to move heaven and earth for the Dragon Queen. But upon rejection, this love quickly shrivelled in strength, and dragged their faith and interest in her as a queen away with it. Jorah's had not. His love remained as strong as ever, as his unrequited feelings of being in love with her had not soured his equal love for her as his queen. He had loved her, but he had also believed in her cause above all else.

Already, she missed this. There was something emboldening about, something far more precious in it. Dany had lost more than she cared to admit when Jorah had died in her arms.

Now, she found herself sitting in her quarters, alone but for the sanguine stone in her hand. The metal of the choker jingled as she absently twisted the jewellery with her fingers, awaiting Missandei's return. Her confidant had gone to collect citadel texts from Samwell, a man that Daenerys certainly didn't expect to be too forthcoming with her requests face-to-face.

Dany had, of course, approached Jon once more about the truth of his return by the hands of the Red Woman. Though he seemed vexed that Dany had learned of this, he could not help her — he did not know how Melisandre had returned him to this world, only that he had made her promise never to do so again.

Their conversation had ended there. The words between them had, of late, become much more curt and clipped, the stranglehold of Jon's heritage now mangling and maiming the love they had forged between them. She wasn't sure if she wished to rescue it from those dark flames. Any question to her claim, at this point, simply didn't warrant entertaining in her mind. Not even for a man she had grown to love. Love should not, and could not, change a person's purpose.

That much she had learned well enough from her late advisor.

* * *

As the hour grew late, the amber glow of candlelight grew across the stone walls of her quarters. Much to her festering guilt, Tarly had indeed parted with the tomes requested through Missandei. Dany was thankful for this, but in truth, it would have been easier if the man had turned cold and cruel to her. Though she would have made the same choice again, the Targaryen was not without a heart — ruthlessness was needed of a ruler, but only a true ruler could carry out a sentence and bear the pain of it afterwards.

His kindness no doubt wounded him, and that, Daenerys decided, was her burden in this sin.

Nestled in a pile of open books littered left and right of her as she sat cross-legged on her bed, the silver-haired woman felt quite lost. Of course, Missandei has offered to read through this monumental amount of work as well, but Daenerys worried for her handmaiden and her friend far too much to let her dabble in this strange art.

At the moment, all of this was just a silly hope, one she was quite sure would end in disappointment. She told herself this again and again in order to create some shield around her heart for that inevitable moment. She was doing this because she had to at least try, Dany told herself. That was all.

That was all.

Decidedly un-queen like in her manner, but safe in her solitude, Daenerys allowed herself to fall backwards into the pillows and cushions, some of the papers crinkling as she caught them on her way down.

Was that all? The chance of finding anything relating to the Red Woman's methods was remote. That it wouldn't turn as sour as it had in her first encounter with magic that restored the dead was another remote hope. How did she know whether or not Jon has returned entirely after his embrace with death? She did not know him in his first life...but she had known Drogo. She had seen everything lost in his eyes when the maegi dragged him back at Dany's command.

If her eyes fluttered shut, she could not have said when. But soon the Dragon Queen was floating through a soft slumber. Welcoming sands and seas of emerald blades...the comforting smell of the sun's heat, the beautiful shimmer of warmer climes. One word stuck her mind as she walked through the desert city: home. It was not her birthplace, but it was home to her.

Here, in the safety of her dream, she allowed herself to voice a question she feared to ask in reality.

"Why did I ever leave? Wasn't this enough?"

It seemed ridiculous, here in this impossibly beautiful recollection of all Daenerys had earned over the seas. To leave it all behind for an ugly throne of swords, in a cold, unruly land that had cast her house away for some strutting, drunken stag. Here, she had forged her own way, her own titles, her own thrones. Why did it all pale in comparison to the throne her forefathers forged for themselves?

"It was more than enough for you, Khaleesi. But all of this was never about gaining more victories and titles for yourself."

The steady, calming voice of reason that she knew so well brought her blood cold in a moment of shock. Turning, Daenerys found herself face-to-face with Ser Jorah. She remembered him as she knew him best; not in armours, but in that godforsaken yellow shirt (she should have had that remain in exile, she thought to herself). Thumbs hooked in a loose sword belt, and managing to remain in a constant state of looking half-dishevelled yet not entirely without care.

Tears prickled in her eyes for the comfort of the sight, inelegant as it was. _Because_ it was inelegant.

"...You're right," she managed to croak past a sob building in her throat, "it wasn't. I didn't want the throne for the crown. Or even for my birthright."

A half smile, if even that, tugged on Jorah's face. He rarely smiled much — in fact, Dany wondered if she had ever seen him smile fully in all the time she'd known him. He had always carried an air of sorrow about him so easily.

"You were already a Queen before you set sail for Westeros. The Iron Throne would not make your crown any brighter."

"It wouldn't."

"So, why?"

Dany felt her brow knot at this illusion's question.

"You're meant to be my advisor. Advise me."

This earned a chuckle from the older man, and he looked away from Daenerys.

"Forgive me, Khaleesi...but I can no longer help you."

"Wha—" the word hardly left her throat when she realised; Jorah was too pale, much paler than she recalled. Creeping up his neck and across his face came a shattering of tell-tale greying skin, the stone-like malady eating away at his flesh.

Greyscale.

Daenerys started forward, but Jorah stepped back from her, one hand stretched out and trembling, keeping the distance between them as it was. Facing her now, she could see in horror how the skin free of Greyscale was far from unmarred. It was rotting, breaking, flaking like scales from a lizard. Though his eyes were trained upon her, they were milky and unseeing.

"Don't...don't..." Jorah all but managed to choke out the words, thick and dredged in pain, but she ran towards him again, a hand to his face even as the flesh fell away and—

Daenerys awoke with gasp, sweat running cold over her face and back.

It was the same dream she had had the night prior. But that did nothing to soften the sting.

Dany pushed herself to sit upright, a clammy hand pressing against one of the books around her. Irritated, she peeled it off carefully so as not to tear the page of the ancient text. Something on the page caught her eye, however, and she drew the book into her lap to study closer.

High Valyrian words were scrawled on the page in an aged, red ink that had soaked almost russet upon the parchment.

"...Se gis hen syndrorro jemagon..." Dany mouthed the last part of the sentence that had caught her attention initially. Lead a soul out of darkness...could it be?

Gathering the book and snatching the ruby choker, the queen fled from her chambers down to the crypt. With so many dead, the underground labyrinth had become a resting place for many awaiting their true funeral, and many houses had requested their dead be burned even in spite of the Night King's fall and Northern tradition to bury their dead. The fear of the dead rising was now engrained heavily in the hearts of winter, and Daenerys believed it would take a long summer to thaw the horrors of this battle from their souls. With House Mormont all but extinguished, both Jorah and Lady Lyanna lay in the Stark crypts until a decision could be made for their resting place. Daenerys assumed that Jon would make the final choice on this, in the absence of anyone in House Mormont to do so.

The crypts had not escaped the wrath of the Night King and his army, but it had certainly faired better than the castle above. Daenerys crept through the labyrinthine corridors, as though afraid her footsteps would be an unwanted intrusion upon the dead. She knew well souls rested in this tomb who fell at the hands of her father. Though she was not her father, oftentimes she felt the weight of his name upon her shoulders; more accurately, she felt the burden of his madness.

Her feet led her to where her advisor lay. This was not the first time she had visited him since the battle's end, though only a few days had past since the bloodshed. Daenerys had found her restlessness brought her to Jorah's side; once to simply weep anew as the loss struggled to find form in her mind as truly happening. Once, to return with less tears in her eyes and a more coherent farewell. And once to beg him to wake up and help her untangle the mess of what to do now.

Dany did her best to quell any hope in the book and stone she carried with her. It wouldn't work. It couldn't work. Perhaps she would not even attempt it, with the image of her dream burning behind her eyes — what if it came true and her knight returned as Drogo had, or rotted away as her stillborn son had in similar magical interference? Could she really risk that for the man that had died to protect her?

Despite the doubts that plagued her, Daenerys found herself numbly placing the heavy tome beside Jorah's body, and fastening the choker around her neck. The gemstone pressed cold against the hollow of her throat, the words she spoke coiling in the silence around her.

"Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon. Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon," Dany felt her voice ill-suited to such words, despite them being forged in her mother tongue. "Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson..."

She waited, breath catching in her chest.

Not a soul stirred.

She tried again, and once more, but to no avail. Nothing around her changed, and her knight remained still.

Drawing a quivering breath, the Queen felt every inch the fool. She had thought not allowing herself to hope would save her heart from breaking again.

Absurd.

* * *

"Do you miss him too?"

Daenerys had sought out her sons after her hopes had been dashed, and now she was sitting a short distance from Winterfell on a snowy hillock overlooking the crumbling stones. Drogon coiled around her, shielding her from the light wind and the slowly drifting snow. A stone's throw away, Rhaegal picked at a recent kill, though he was still eating comparatively little.

The thundering roll of Drogon's growl gave Dany all the reply she needed, and she reached up to draw her hand down his snout in sympathy. Mother of Dragons she may be, but she had not been the only one who cared for these beings since they hatched. She did not think dragons would grieve the loss of men, but the sorrow in Drogon's eyes could not be mistaken.

Quietly, she removed the choker from her neck, placing it atop the book she had long since discarded in the snow. Dany paused for a moment, considering the strange collection of items. A false hope. A silly dream. She wished she had never heard the voices behind the door.

_...A bear there was, a bear, a bear… _Where had she heard that silly song? Ser Barristan, perhaps, and his tales of the Usurper and his love of such songs.

"A bear, a bear...I'll never dance...with a hairy bear," Dany muttered, a sad smile crossing her features for the sheer ridiculousness of it all. "I called for a knight...but you were a bear..."

Her farewell, she supposed.

Daenerys closed her eyes and thought of those sunnier climes, those sand-swirled days, breaking chains, believing of a beautiful land across the seas waiting to be saved…

"...Dracarys," Dany whispered, a tear escaping from closed lids. She felt Drogon move from where she was sitting, leaning her back against his side, but for the first time, he didn't react immediately. Her voice had been quiet, and without much resolve. She sniffed, wiped the tear away with a gloved hand, then opened her eyes to fix them on the tome and ruby gem. She took a deep breath, steeling her nerve, before repeating herself in earnest, "Dracarys."

The heat of dragonfire whistled past her shoulder, drawing no flinch from the queen. The book and stone quickly set alight, the snow around it hissing as it evaporated almost as soon as it melted. Strangely, the fire did not burn on as it usually did — instead, it seemed to whither inwards, a blooming flower in reverse. Daenerys watched with curiosity, leaning forward to see the charred remains of the book...and the unscathed ruby, now curling and alight with life and fire.

"Hen ñuqir, perzys," she repeated part of the verse incredulously, picking up the stone from the smouldering paper beneath, "hen morghot, glaeson." The gemstone, previously cold and dull, now burned in her palm and danced bright with a swirl of colour and light. The missing element restored its brilliance — light, borrowed from fire incarnate. Different from this Lord of Light's flame given to his followers...but dragonfire held a magic of its own. A magic Daenerys knew too well carried the spark of life, for had fire not played a part to restore those stone-cold eggs into the magnificent beings that sat around her now?

Clamping her hands around the gemstone, the Dragon Queen ran as fast as she could, snow flaring up and clinging to her sombre black attire as she made for the castle crypts once more. All but falling down the stairs, she scrambled to where Jorah lay...only to find him gone.

Her heart threatened to choke the air from her throat, as wide, half-wild violet eyes searched in vain before she ran up the crypt stairs, and nearly crashed through her Hand.

"Y-Your Grace! What are you _doing _down here? We've been looking all over for you; the—"

"Wh-where is he? Where's Jorah?" Dany gasped out, even as she helped Tyrion back to his feet.

"That's just it, Your Grace — his pyre is lit, I didn't think you would want to miss your chance to bid fa —"

_Pyre._

Cutting Tyrion off again, Daenerys forced her tired legs to rush again, forcing her out of the crypts and through the courtyards. The pyres had been built under the watchful gaze of the Weirwood tree in the godswood, sacred to these lands. As stone became a blur of trees either side of her, Daenerys ran through the woods to see the funeral pyre already lit and crackling. The flames had not yet burned in earnest, and, not hearing the words of shock and address around her, Dany barely paused to say Jorah's name in disbelief before rushing into the flames herself.

Fire had never brought her fear, it was near-thoughtless to simply approach it. Her main concern was that she would be too late.

The air crackled around her as the flame caught and began to grow, the roar of fire drowning out the shouts and cries of the fools who thought their newfound Dragon Queen could be downed by fire. Daenerys scrambled up the pyre, grabbing hold of Jorah by the shoulders and proceeding to slowly and painstakingly drag him out of the funeral fires. The flames clamoured to grab at them, and more than once she was forced to stop and snuff out flames that caught his clothes with a frantic smacking of her palms.

Eventually, she and her knight tumbled from the fire — she was ashen, but unscathed. She pushed Jorah to lie on his back, noting to her horror that he had not escaped the fire without its mark. The fires had torn at his face, a ferocious burn blistering his right cheek all the way up and over his eye and snaking to his brow bone, and rendering his right hand a bloody and blackened mess.

"Hen syndrorro, oños! Hen ñuqir, perzys! Hen morghot, glaeson!" Dany ordered, pressing the burning ruby stone between her own hand and clasping Jorah's cold left hand so that the stone settled between them. "Hen syndrorro, oños! Hen ñuqir, perzys! Hen morghot, glaeson!"

Drunk on hope, voice raised, the Dragon Queen commanded a final time: "_Hen syndrorro, oños! Hen ñuqir, perzys! Hen morghot, glaeson!_"

Come back to me, she thought desperately, come back to me whole and true…

Just as her hand began to slacken from the biting points of the gemstone pressing painfully into her palm, the warmth of the ruby erupted and spread out across her knight, warming his skin and causing his back to arch as air rushed into starved lungs. One eye flew open, wide and unseeing, before searching frantically and settling with some semblance of focus on Daenerys leaning over him, a face painted the picture of disbelief and joy.

The sobs that threatened to tumble from her throat came out instead as laughter, joyous laughter, incredulous laughter, that life had truly returned to her knight. She brought her hands gently to his face, ruby tumbling from her hand and landing in the snow beside them. She avoided the cruel burn blighting one side, brushing his matted hair from his face instead and trying to calm him.

"_Shhhh, _shhh..." There were a thousand things Dany wanted to say, but right now, in this moment, not one would articulate upon her tongue. Jorah simply stared at her with his uninjured eye, unable to speak from the ragged, sharp breathing that racked his body. Slowly, his gasps settled somewhat, though Dany could feel heat radiating from his face as she soothed him. The terrible heat did not seem to want to wane, a fever settling into his flesh. With words failing her, the Dragon Queen instead placed a kiss upon her knight's forehead, gentle and soft, before pulling away to see his eyes had shut again, though his parted lips still pulled rasping breaths into his chest.

Beside the pair, settled in the snow, the ruby stone dulled to a near-blackened state, before suddenly splintering and shattering like glass.

* * *

**AN: Thank you for the lovely reviews! I wanted to get out the chapter of Jorah actually, you know, coming back. From here on out, updates will be once a week (at the latest. I tend to write in bursts so if I am inspired, I have been known to put out multiple chapters quickly!) **

**Any and all feedback is appreciated and adored. **


	3. Chapter 3

_**CHAPTER 3**_

_**-Jorah-**_

If he had the strength, he would have consoled her. His heart broke to think Daenerys was out here, in a world so far from the one she deserved to know, a world of blood and death. Tears cascaded down her face, desperation in her eyes, but Jorah could do nothing to comfort her. Gods, he had never known such sheer exhaustion — his body wouldn't move, leaden and cold, with only agony to tell him he yet had limbs. A small price to pay for the knowledge that she was now safe from harm.

But his Queen was hurting. Jorah would be damned if he did nothing.

And so, scraping up an echo of his strength that was long since spent, Jorah tried to speak. A whisper, though he found he no longer had the energy to form words.

The breath left near-wordlessly, and in its absence, the darkness that had danced at the edges of his vision finally settled within Jorah, bringing an impossible cold, the promise of rest, of redemption found...

...before a scalding, searing heat blazed through his body, chasing away those shadows and devouring the cold. It wrenched his eyes open and forced air painfully into his lungs. As the darkness cleared away, he saw her once more — tears still upon her face, but a smile to accompany them.

The smell of fire prickled his nose, an icy cold pressed at his back. The battle...ice in the air, fire upon the earth...

Fear pinched at Jorah's heart — if they were still here, then Daenerys was not safe. He had to get her away from this ungodly battlefield, Jorah's mind spluttered, confusion and fear boiling in his head.

"_Shhh_...shhh..." Dany's soft hum dampened the panic racing in his broken body, and he felt her lips press gently against his forehead. His chest rose and fell, though the urgency ebbed away a little. The explosion of heat that had brought him gasping into consciousness, however, did not cease. The uncomfortable, snaking warmth under Jorah's skin only grew, becoming almost unbearable as it seared his veins. The rising heat quickly consumed the energy it had given the knight, and exhaustion gripped Jorah to drag him down into sleep again.

* * *

Once more, Jorah awoke groggily, though his strangely uncooperative right eye remained sealed shut. Slowly, every muscle and bone aching and screeching in protest, the man brought his right hand up to attempt to investigate his damaged eye. But the heavy limb, upon reaching the sight of his good eye, revealed a heavily swathed and bandaged hand. Jorah's brain felt so fogged and slow that he stared numbly at the hand for a long moment before letting it drop unceremoniously back to his side. Even with the soft cushions and throws beneath to break its fall, the action brought a stinging jolt of pain up his hand and arm.

After a pause, something of his drowsy mind stumbled into the forefront and demanded attention and action from him. The last thought that had burned into his brain for those last, agonising moments up until his last breath, when Jorah had had only the energy spare to focus on this one, solitary thought:

_Protect her. _

The thought spurred the fever clinging to his skin and bones. Amid the mess of fractured memories and confusion, it was the only thing that really made sense. So, in spite of his pains, Jorah managed to push himself up to a seated position on the bed. Bandages pulled against his torso a he did so, his chest and stomach heavily wrapped in rough cloths to stem the numerous wounds biting as he moved.

Jorah shuffled, making no sound in spite of the pain, though his teeth clenched together and the muscles of his jaw tremored. Cold stone sharply greeted his bare feet as he stumbled to his feet, gripping the bedpost with his good hand in order to steady himself. It was a slow and arduous task, with the world lurching in his vision, but the knight eventually managed to trip and stagger his way across the room and out of his quarters.

Fuelled by the singular thought that echoed from his last moments, through death and into his return to this world, Jorah's reeling gait led him down the stone corridors on unsure feet. Jorah had no idea where Daenerys would be, but logical thought hadn't quite the strength to make itself known to him yet. His left hand pressed against the wall and slid along the rough stones as the knight continued his painstakingly slow journey with his head bowed, both in fatigue and to watch his unbalanced feet lest he fall.

A muffled voice brought the shuffling man to a halt. The words sounded far away, unclear and hitting his ears as nothing but noise. Lifting his head and leaning heavily into the wall for support, Jorah's lilting vision rolled for a moment before settling on a semi-familiar face. A grey-and-white beard coupled with the scent of salt air that never quite left him, Jorah recognised the man as Ser Davos Seaworth. The man's lips moved again, the same sound bouncing around Jorah without comprehension, and he responded with a well-versed Mormont scowl.

He knew well that Davos was a friend, and not a foe. But the lack of clarity in his words brought Jorah's ire, through no fault of the other man.

Muttering what he hoped sounded like a request to get past, Jorah tried to continue along his path. Whatever this was, it could wait. The dead had fallen, Jorah knew this, and yet in his addled state he didn't yet _comprehend_ it. The echo of adrenaline had etched into his bones upon his death and sparked alive upon his return, urging him to find her and protect her, with his life if need be.

_Stand up,_ he remembered his mind screaming in that freezing hell as the hoard gathered around them, _stand up. Stand up. Stand up. Don't let them near her. **Stand up**._

This stubborn mantra brought unsure feet shuffling along the stones once more, trying to walk by Ser Davos. But one misstep, a shard of broken stone from the ruins of the castle around them pressing suddenly in the sole of his foot, knocked Jorah's precarious balance. He would have fallen face-first had his fellow knight not caught him.

_**Stand. Up.**_

Gods, he tried, but it felt as though his own body was fighting back against him, _demanding_ rest, protesting that it had been pushed much too far already. There was nothing left but his own stubbornness, and his confused state was eating away at that too.

Jorah heard Davos say something, it sounded like an exclamation and he felt Davos' hands move sharply from where he had grabbed Jorah by his bare shoulders to instead grip him by his bandaged upper arms. But whatever he had yelled registered as the same slurry of sound as before. Jorah tried to speak, felt his lips moving, but he couldn't even hear his own voice properly.

Jorah pushed away weakly instead, took one step to continue towards his goal, before his uninjured eye rolled back and his knees buckled beneath him.

* * *

Darkness; not the cold, looming darkness that had pressed down upon the field of battle, Jorah noted, but a warm, comforting darkness akin to that blessed moment of finally falling asleep after an arduous day. That soft, safe darkness that hid a person from the world and blessed them with rest.

It was warm, it was serene, and he didn't want to wake up. But the warmth was growing, rising, _burning_. He tried to move, to wriggle away, but found his body like stone. The searing wave of fire scorched the perfect sanctuary and brought with it a blinding light that destroyed the comforting dark. Fear shook his heart, though he made no sound, and Jorah knew he had to get away from this unbearable heat. But try as he might, he couldn't escape — it was in his limbs, in his skin, under his skin and tearing through his veins. He couldn't bear it, the agony was more than he had ever known, he had to get away, he had to—

A burst of pain across his chest awoke Jorah from his night terror, and he felt the air being knocked from his lungs. One eye blinking awake, he found himself in a tangled heap upon the floor, the throws and blankets of his bed knotted around him. But the stones beneath him pressed blissfully cool against his skin, and for the moment, he had no intention of moving.

Exhaling, exhausted, Jorah's eye fluttered shut again, hoping that the cold stone floor against his cheek would offer him reprieve from his apparent delirium too. Alas, no sooner had his eye closed than he heard the door to his rooms open. A concerned man's voice blurred out, though the pattern of its cadence told him someone was saying his name.

Hands once more came to his upper arms, hauling him up off the floor. Jorah had half a mind to swing at the man who'd robbed him of the peace the cold floor brought, but he couldn't summon the strength. Whoever it was sat him roughly on the bed again, and, blinking irritably awake, Jorah fixed his 'saviour' with another glower.

Had Ser Davos been waiting outside his rooms lest he fall again? Jorah supposed he ought to thank the man really, and allowed his face to slacken from its frown.

"...was right. You don't half have a face like a bear with a sore head sometimes," Davos' voice finally began to register in Jorah's ears, and he found he was able to focus on him better, "Suppose that's fitting. Best get rid of it for your visitor though, Ser Jorah. I've heard grumpy dragons are much more frightening than grumpy bears."

That caught his attention and Jorah whirled around so quickly from where he was sitting that he almost unbalanced himself again. Chuckling, Ser Davos released him and straightened up with a huff that plagued most men his age when standing up. The knight made his way to the door, walking past Ser Jorah's visitor with a small nod and address of "Your Grace" before he disappeared out the doorway.

Standing in the room, looking every inch as regal as Jorah looked utterly bedraggled, his Queen wore the raiments of one in mourning, covered from neck to ankle in the purest black. Even the clasp of her coat formed a dragon's head carved in dragonglass. Jorah felt his heart drop as he thought to himself: had Jon Snow not survived the battle? The last he had seen of the King in the North was him running through the courtyard of Winterfell towards the godswood — the fact that Daenerys was not with him had alerted Jorah, and the echo of Drogon's cry had sent him running out into the battlefield.

"F-forgive me, Khaleesi," Jorah's voice came as a rasping croak, and the rest of his utterance disappeared in a dry, wheezing cough. His throat felt drier than a well in Astapor, and he quickly decided against trying to speak again soon.

Boot heels clicked lightly across the floor until Daenerys stood before him, hands clasped tightly in front of her and looking down at his seated, hunched form. Jorah was no stranger to looking quite unsightly in comparison to most; he had long resigned himself to the knowledge that he was not a handsome man, blessed with neither elegance nor grace in the first place by all accounts. Numerous battles on various fields had not been kind to him either. He did not care one whit. But in this moment, ragged and wheezing, swathed in bandages, burned and scarred before the Dragon Queen, Jorah was painfully aware of the chasm between them.

"Ser Jorah...I asked for Ser Davos to fetch me as soon as you were awake," Daenerys spoke, and Jorah began to look up, but his eye caught sight of her clasped hands. They seemed loosely held at her front, and yet, he noticed she was trembling. His uninjured eye narrowed, wondering what could possibly make her tremble so. Having spotted this, Jorah could now hear the waver in her voice as she continued, "I wanted to—I wanted to say—"

Jorah looked up at her from under his brow, forearms resting on his thighs as he sat hunched, wishing he could stand and give the Queen the due courtesy she deserved. She was posed, that ramrod and defiant gaze in place, and yet, something in Daenerys' eyes lacked her usual quiet composure. Lilac orbs stared back at him, almost as though she couldn't believe what she saw. She made to speak again, voice cracking a little, "I wanted to thank..."

The inner corners of her brows pulled upwards, betraying the sadness she so clearly wished to repress. Jorah presumed that, for the Queen to struggle so with her usually unwavering composure, Jon Snow had indeed fallen in the battle. He started to try and get to his feet, to offer his condolences, but was duly knocked back down onto the bed sharply by a sudden embrace. Well, Jorah assumed it was meant to be an embrace, but truly, Daenerys had all but thrown her arms around his neck and fallen into him, pulling him into a hug strong enough to warrant an honorary title as a Mormont.

Eye wide and hands awkwardly held out to the side, the knight had no idea how to respond but to half-splutter, half-cough:

"K-Khaleesi?"

He felt her tears trickle down to the bandages on his arm as she cried onto his shoulder. The sound of her sobbing dredged up half-memories Jorah hadn't been sure were real until now — after falling, after the pain gave way to numbing shock all over his body, his Queen crying over him, holding him and begging him to stay awake not with words, but with broken sobs. The smell of fire, of death, growing closer to him...the impossible cold that burrowed so deeply into his bones, robbing the air from his lungs as he tried to speak, and then...nothing.

In this moment, Jorah was certain he had met his demise, held in the arms of the Queen he had protected with every last shred of strength he had. But Jorah had seen resurrection magic only once before; a terrible magic that turned one of the strongest men he'd ever met into a hollow shell. An existence without meaning. And the price for this awful answer to a frantic prayer...

Gently, Jorah took hold of Daenerys by her shoulders, his heavily-bandaged right hand stinging raw as he did so, and pulled her away from his own shoulder to meet her eyes. Violet pools glittered back, filled with tears, the skin around her eyes and the corners of her mouth having blotched red against her pale skin.

"Please..." It was the only question important enough that it found its way to his tongue from the myriad questions whirling in his mind, "please tell me you didn't pay the price, Khaleesi."

Wide, incredulous eyes stared back at him, before a choked laugh broke loose from Daenerys' lips, wrapped in sadness, but breaking a half-smile to her face. She blinked back her tears and took but a moment to settle her breathing before speaking.

"Jorah, your concern for me has always been admirable. And, at times, I thought it overbearing," she admitted with a small nod, eyes cast to the side in remembrance. "I fear I have been ignorant..._arrogant_, even...to the truth behind your faith in me. That I have been blind to the truth of you. Until it was almost—" Daenerys stopped suddenly. She bowed her head, and Jorah heard her inhale slowly, before she continued, "—until it _was _too late." She turned to face him again, looking more collected but none less stricken in grief. "If a price had been offered to return my knight to me, Ser Jorah, know that I would gladly have paid it a thousand times, just as you did to protect me. But I will not have a man wounded in my battle lie here and fret on my account."

Daenerys gave him a smile then, and it lifted his heart enough to bring a half-smile to his own lips that Jorah couldn't have prevented even if he wanted to. "This magic was mine. It was always mine. The same life force that brought my dragons into this world still echoes in their flames. I commanded it then, and I commanded it now."

Her words soothed his worries somewhat, but Jorah couldn't help but frown and look down at his bandaged hand and arm. After a pause, he looked up at Daenerys.

"...That explains the burns then."

Dany's face dropped in shock, before a broader smile took form, a single breathy scoff accompanying it.

"I didn't _burn _you back to life, Ser Jorah. Contrary to a certain Lannister's beliefs, I do not address all the issues of my life with fire. Your burns are from," the smile faltered then, "from your...funeral pyre."

Silence fell between them at the rather absurd conversation they were having. An impossible conversation topic to be sure, one that two people should not be able to have at all.

"Ah, forgive me, Khaleesi," Jorah sighed, earning a look of confusion from his queen. But he wouldn't let her cry for him any longer. "I did forget to mention your penchant for wandering into funeral pyres to your Hand..."

Daenerys' brows rose in surprise, though her smile did not turn to a look of disapproval. Instead, she leaned forward a little, pressing the back of her hand against Jorah's forehead.

"Ser Davos is right. You do have a fever. Perhaps I ought to ask Missandei if she would draw you a _very_ cold bath with some of the snow from outside," she retorted, still smirking, "and then throw you_ in _it."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews. I read every single one and they always put a silly smile on my face. I'm so glad so many can 'hear' the characters voices in how I type — that is very high praise! Regarding his facial burn, I hadn't thought about it being similar to the Hound! It was intended as a nod to the books, where Jorah is branded on his right cheek. **

**I currently have four more chapters after this one outlined and planned, but I estimate around twenty chapters total, depending on how the story develops. So, guest reviewer, I cannot promise fifty more, but I can promise more than ten more, and then some ;-).**

* * *

**_CHAPTER 4_**

**_-Daenerys-_**

The days that followed felt like the rolling of waves — up and down, tentative steps forward only to be pushed backwards. Some days, Ser Jorah was lucid, and even had enough strength to grumble at being ordered to stay in his bed and rest rather than trying to get up. If he had it his way, Daenerys had no doubt in her mind that her knight would be back in his armour, sword at his side, ready to serve and protect his Queen.

But on other days, the fever that stubbornly refused to break would surge. It left him coughing, wheezing, and at its worst, delirious. Seeing a man as stoic and quiet as Jorah falling into panicked fits of rambling and confusion brought prickling tears to Dany's eyes and fears to her heart. What if this magic had been imperfect? She had been so happy to see Jorah the first time he'd woken because he seemed, bar his wounds, whole. Perhaps she had been foolish to dismiss the worry then and there that he would crumble as Drogo had, that he had returned in body _and_ mind.

Daenerys had woken early, the nightmare that plague her sleep no longer jolting her back to consciousness. Dressing in silver furs and soft wools, the Queen made her daily journey to Jorah's room. She preferred to visit him on the sunrise, as she knew her bear slept through most of the day and she did not wish to disturb him then. As she walked through the stone corridors, amethyst eyes watched her people starting their days also. The Northmen greeted her with a grunt and a nod, a newfound courtesy since the battle. Yet it still pained her heart to see the empty spaces, the people who weren't there. Their losses had been great. And she could not save them all.

Quietly, Daenerys slipped into Jorah's rooms. She did not knock; if he were asleep, she would merely check on him before silently leaving to go about her day. If he were awake, then she could always apologise for not knocking — it was preferable to being the one to wake him, as he would no doubt immediately worry as to why.

She padded gently into the room, eyes adjusting to the dark enough to see the slow rise and fall of Jorah's chest, the slight rumbling wheeze of his yet-healing lungs. He was asleep, and for the moment, it seemed to be a peaceful one. But it was clear his night had not been wholly restful — pillows were scattered across the floor, throws having spilled from the bed, blankets wrapped around one leg or tangled across his arm. Daenerys carefully moved to the bedside, dipping down to scoop up the discarded bedding and putting it in a pile at the end of the bed. Then, with a feather-touch so as not to wake the man, Dany lifted his unbandaged arm a little to untangle the blanket that was snaked around it.

She knew that her bear had fought in many battles, and though the sight of scars that roped up his left arm didn't surprise her, the scarring that riddled his collarbone and chest halted her as she went to place the blanket over him again. Darkened, thick tissue formed numerous jagged craters in his flesh, with a dense white sinew marbling and winding between them. It covered most of his chest and torso, enveloping his left shoulder and disappearing to no doubt consume his back as well. It all blossomed from the point on his left forearm that Dany knew to be the origin of his previous affliction of greyscale.

She had never asked how far it had spread before he found the cure, as per her impossible and perhaps unfair order. Now that Dany could see the echo of its damage, the trampling path the disease had left upon his skin, a pang of guilt froze her in place.

Jorah had returned to her. But she hadn't asked him how dire his disease had gotten before he was healed.

At the time, she thought it didn't need asking. In truth, she had been too afraid to ask just how close she had been to losing her knight.

"It wasn't the climate."

A mumbled voice sounded and made Dany jump, dropping the blanket from its frozen state in her hands mid-covering him. The scarring vanished from sight beneath it. The woman's eyes darted to Jorah's face; one eye looked up at her, unfocused and shining with a glaze of fever.

"What?"

A tired smile curled the corner of Jorah's lip, eye closing as he repeated:

"It wasn't the climate. Or the rest..."

Dany had no idea what he was talking about, but she hadn't the heart to tell him. Instead, she busied herself with smoothing the blanket over him properly, adopting a smile.

"Ah," she replied, false-knowingly, "well...rest will do you good now. The climate might too; you must have missed the cool breeze during your time overseas."

"Mmm...not really..." a deep, sleepy response sounded, "don't tell anyone but...it's all a lie."

Dany frowned, as she finished tidying the bed and making sure he was comfortable.

"What is?"

That fever-shone eye opened again.

"That Northmen prefer the cold. It's all a lie. Deep down, no one yearns for the summer sun more than a Northman."

It sounded quite sad and beautiful put that way, until he added: "We just _say_ we don't feel the cold to scare the Southerners."

Dany rolled her eyes at this 'shocking' revelation, but she couldn't help that the unsure smile had turned into a true one.

"Bravado knows no bounds," she drawled, but patted Jorah on the shoulder all the same. Dany leaned in and whispered: "The North's great secret is safe with me."

Jorah simply hummed in response, eye fluttering closed again and Dany was quite sure the man had forgotten and fallen sleep before his eye had even shut. Now that it had, her attention drifted to his right eye. It had been sealed shut by the burns from his pyre, though Tarly had elected not to bandage that side of his face. Instead, the maester came by nightly to apply an ointment to it, and it did seem to be slowly working.

Dandy wondered just how deep the damage had gone though. His right arm had been a blackened, scorched mess, the smell of burnt flesh in the immediate aftermath still haunting her. She had no doubt under those bandages the scarring would be as severe as the greyscale scarring that consumed the other side of his body.

Why had she never thought to ask him? The question seemed so small and ridiculous, but suddenly Dany felt trapped by it. It would not leave her mind: Jorah had returned to her, despite the impossible demand upon him. And she had simply accepted this, without questioning the pain he may have endured. For her orders. For her.

The question pressed too heavily upon another doubt growing in her heart, one she feared to give voice and hated to hear in her nightmares.

_Why did I ever leave behind what I had achieved? Why do I want this damnable throne so much?_

The question changed in a heartbeat all of a sudden, as though all her confusion suddenly melded together to ask:

_Who do I want this damnable throne for?_

* * *

Daenerys returned later that evening, partly out of some strange personal attempt to right the wrong she had ruminated on, and partly to escape the constant unrest among their council. Between Tyrion scrutinising her every decision for any whiff of her father's traits and Sansa Stark's constant pressure for the North to remain free and independent of the Seven Kingdoms Daenerys sought to claim, Daenerys had little by the means of reprieve. Though she had attempted to speak with Jon, the connection between them had quickly tarnished following their confrontation in the crypts. The pause forced by the war only served to let this wound fester and Dany quickly discovered that Jon was not as adept as confronting personal issues as he was at charging headlong at issues of the realm.

She supposed that was what she had admired about him. But the revelation of his heritage had, in both of their minds, done irreparable damage. For Dany, an undeniable paranoia began to grow in her mind that this man who refused to bend the knee until pain of death literally pressed upon them all might very well stand and assert his claim after all.

It was the sort of storm Daenerys had come to rely on Jorah to navigate. His absence at her side resounded strongly, but it was a huge comfort to know that absence was temporary now. The idea that it was to be forevermore had already broken her heart upon the battlefield.

As she entered Jorah's rooms, Dany decided that she could, perhaps, ask the man for his counsel on one or two pressing matters, if he seemed strong enough. She knew him well enough to know he was frustrated at the idea of prolonged bedrest. Feeling a part of her reign again would certainly be valuable to him, and his advice would be more than that to Daenerys.

So caught up in her thoughts was she that Daenerys didn't notice the presence of another in the room until a voice cut through her reverie:

"O-Oh...Your Grace. I'll um...well, I'll come back later then, shall I?"

Daenerys snapped back to the room and away from her thoughts to see Samwell Tarly hurriedly stuffing fresh bandages and vials back into a small wooden box. Guilt did not shake her resolve, but regret that her actions had wounded this man certainly made itself known. He was a good man, one of the few who certainly did not deserve to experience the horrors of the real world. And yet, so often, good people were the ones to suffer.

"No, please — continue. Ser Jorah needs your attention more than he needs mine," she said, gesturing with an open palm to the sleeping knight. It looked like some of his bandages were soaking through, no doubt from his fever-fuelled writhing agitating his wounds. She knew all too well how many lay beneath those strips of cloth, all the blades he had shielded her from that night.

Sam stared at her for a moment, tears welling in his eyes, though from frustration, sadness, or hatred, Daenerys didn't know. She knew she deserved them all, and such was the burden of leaders — to live with their decisions. Good or bad, there was always going to be someone who wept for the fallen.

"R-Right. Right," Sam's voice was taut, but he unpacked his supplies once again and began to slowly unwrap the bandages on Jorah's arm. Jorah responded with a furrowed brow and a hiss of pain, and Dany saw Sam's eyes dart to a vial of fluid in the wooden box, perhaps debating its use.

"He can't have it," Dany offered as advice, sitting herself down in a chair at the far corner of the room so as not to make the maester too uncomfortable with her presence. Sam looked to her in confusion, and so she clarified quickly: "Ser Jorah can't take milk of the poppy. It makes him ill."

The maester looked a little alarmed at this information, and the fact he had looked to the vial at all gave Daenerys pause — this man had cured Jorah of greyscale. A painful affliction...how did he not know that Jorah could not drink milk of the poppy? The man would certainly have told the maester of this allergy if he had been offered it.

"Well, that explains a few things," Sam mumbled, before returning to his work removing Jorah's old bandages and cleaning the wounds. This time, it was Dany's turn to be confused.

"Oh?"

Sam worked in silence for a moment, and Dany wondered if this apparently meek man was really bold enough to ignore the Dragon Queen. His anger was just, and she would certainly allow this insult to slide in this circumstance. But he did eventually speak, his eyes fixed on his work.

"When Ser Jorah came to the Citadel, the arch maester declared him beyond saving. His greyscale was advanced and...well, greyscale rarely has a happy ending. Not much had been done to find a cure, but," the man stopped talking for a second to inspect one of the burns more closely. Apparently satisfied, he continued: "Well, I suppose he's told you the rest."

_He doesn't wish to speak with me_, Dany thought. _But he doesn't want to sit in silence either._

"Ser Jorah never regaled me the details. Only that you had risked everything to save him."

Once more, Sam managed to look at Dany, before fixating himself on his work.

"So did he. The procedure had only been done a handful of times, and never on someone as far along with the disease as he was. I did wonder why he was willing to try with no guarantee of success," another flicked gaze, uncertain, uncomfortable, "was it—was it you?"

Daenerys held her chin a little higher, though she felt her face betray a sting of discomfort. It sounded like an accusation, but if Tarly expected her to feel remorse for fuelling Jorah's desire to live, he did not know her well enough at all.

"In part. It is true I commanded him to cure himself, but I would not flatter myself to say it was his entire reason for fighting to survive," she said, before echoing Jorah's words from the past. "Even brave men fear death."

To her surprise, Sam nodded once, then alarm crossed into his own features. He had nodded in spite of his bitterness towards her, Dany realised; hatred was no easy task for this man.

"True. Very true..." he admitted. For a long while, silence settled between the pair, save for the sounds of cloth bandages being torn away, salves being applied, and the occasional muttering to himself from the maester.

Quite out of the blue, Sam said: "The cure for greyscale. The process he endured, in part, for you. On your orders," his voice was strangely clipped, as though he were at odds with himself to speak about it. Whatever he was about to say, Dany assumed he wanted her to hurt for it. Simultaneously, he did not wish to hurt even her. This man was ill-suited for this cold world, she thought to herself. "The afflicted area is peeled away. Completely peeled away. That's the only way to get rid of it."

Dany felt her face waxen, remembering just how much of Jorah's chest and torso was enveloped in scarring. Had he truly endured such a torment, and without being offered milk of the poppy? Her shock was further worsened as Sam continued: "The arch maester would have spotted his stocks of milk of the poppy depleting, so I couldn't risk that. In fact, we couldn't risk anyone finding out about the procedure...I...I had to ask him not to scream, and pray to all the gods that this man had some wondrously high tolerance for pain! I had to ask a man not to_ scream_ before _skinning_ him. And do you know what the worst part of this is?" Sam paused in his work, and Dany noticed his hands were trembling. "The worst part is he _didn't_ scream. He endured it. For _you_. If I'd known that at the time, I would have been quite enamoured with the idea of such a person worthy of that level of dedication being our queen."

His voice was trembling with anger, with sadness, and, dare she say it, with disappointment. Her mask did not move for the outburst, and she endured his hatred.

"Maester Tarly...in the Night's Watch, if a man refuses to serve under a new Commander of the Night's Watch...is this betrayal?" Dany asked simply.

"Don't—" Sam's response cut short as something caught his attention. He turned away from Daenerys, leaning in closer to inspect something on Jorah's shoulder, freshly uncovered from old bandages and awaiting clean gauze. His brow furrowed, and he quickly turned to pick up an instrument from his supplies before turning back to the wounded man and peering in, mumbling, "What...in Seven Hells..."

The Dragon Queen rose to her feet, trying to see what had caught the maester's attention so throughly. She came to stand at the opposite side of the bed, but she couldn't make out what Sam was prising from Jorah's shoulder.

"Maester Tarly, what is it? What's wrong?" She could hear worry in her voice, and hoped this would spur cooperation from the other man. Luckily, his desire to aid others far outstripped his own personal feelings, and Sam replied to her.

"Most of his wounds are healing well, but this one on his shoulder hasn't healed at all...there's something," he stalled as he continued to tug at something within the wound, earning a hiss of pain from the unconscious Jorah, "_something_...stuck in the wound, keeping it open..."

A brief struggle that stretched out for eons to Dany resulted in a sickening sound and the maester's tweezers pulling loose from the wound. Pinched in is grasp was a shard of sorts, tapered to a point. Sam turned away from the bedside, placing the object into a small dish within his tools and supplies and pouring a little water from his water-skein. With the blood rinsed away, the strange object glimmered with a coppery red gleam.

Holding it up to candlelight, Sam turned the object that it sparked and danced in the flame, as if alive.

"A broken sword-tip, perhaps?" He questioned aloud.

Daenerys couldn't take her eyes off it. It was completely familiar to her, and yet, utterly bewildered her at the same time. The russet fragment seemed to absorb the candlelight afforded to it, reflecting it back in a lively display.

"That is not metal," Dany said numbly, transfixed by the object. "It's dragonscale."


	5. Chapter 5

_**CHAPTER 5 **_

_**-Jorah- **_

Jorah had been awake for hours, long before the sun had risen over Winterfell. He had woken to find fresh bandages on his arms and torso, and a tankard of what sadly turned out to be mere water at his bedside. Though he had hoped for ale, the water was received gratefully enough. Thankfully, his fever had receded a little, enough that the man felt a little strength returning to him at last.

Slowly, Jorah got to his feet, accompanied by a wave of lightheadedness that reminded him that he was far from healed. Other than water, he had not eaten since...

Even thinking about it seem ludicrous. _Since I...returned to life_, Jorah thought, the truth of his unnatural survival sitting uncomfortably in his chest. He did not begrudge Daenerys for this; after all, now he had a chance to see her succeed and sit upon the Iron Throne, as he had no doubt she would. But the unease of the price to be paid had not settled in his mind. Daenerys had been quite adamant that she had not paid a price, that the magic born of fire was hers to command and it had burned brightly and quickly.

The last time they had encounter such magic, the price had been steep. A life to pay for a life. Jorah did not doubt Daenerys would have fretted over this, so what had assured her so readily that bringing him back would not end in sorrow as it had with Khal Drogo?

He looked out of the window of his rooms, watching as the sun rose and spilled across the snowy plains. Even the snow seemed different without the long night pressing in — it seemed softer, kinder, and far more beautiful for it.

The door creaked behind him, and Jorah turned from the window in time to see the Dragon Queen. She held a small bowl in her hand, steam rising in the colder air like a thin veil of silver, and a warm smile on her face. For the first time in a long time, Jorah noted a real sense of happiness in her eyes as she walked in, rather than the fretful, silent fear that had roiled beneath her mask of late.

"You'll be pleased to know that Tyrion has certainly warmed to you of late," Daenerys commented, setting the bowl down on a table by his bedside. "He wanted me to wait before marching on King's Landing. I think he secretly hopes you'll be bedridden for some time longer."

"Am I keeping you?" Jorah asked, eyeing the bowl wearily. As hungry as he was, for some reason, the scent of it didn't appeal at all to him. It smelt sour, almost raw, yet he could see well that the meat was cooked.

"Partly," Dany jested, a smirk tugging at her lips. It may have been a jest, but it cut Jorah a little for the truth of it — he was frustrated knowing that his recovery was one of the things keeping his Queen from marching upon her enemies. Towards her goal, towards everything she held dear. "But as impatient as I am to remove the lioness from my throne, I wouldn't want to waste my one chance to do so by being ill-prepared. I don't just need my armies healed...I need my people ready and able to follow me. If more time to do this means risking more time for Cersei to gather her own forces...then that is how we shall approach it."

"A wise decision," Jorah admitted, an honest observation given that he knew all too well that impatience was a blessing and curse upon the Queen. "And in truth, I don't believe giving time to your own forces will risk much. Cersei may also make use of that time to bolster her defences, but if what Varys says of her rule is true, then the false queen lacks something you have. Something no time in the world will afford her."

Dany's head tilted to the side, a silent cue for him to continue. "The love of your people. No amount of armies can bring more power to a king or queen than the love of their people can. People fight for Cersei for the coins in their hands. People fight for you because they believe in you. Because everything you have fought for and worked for has been for them. You have given everything for the good of your people — and they do the same for you. On the battlefield, no amount of coin will make a man fight as hard as someone who truly believes in their leader."

This earned him an appreciative and understanding nod from Daenerys, her head bowing a little at his words.

"I know it well. But I must admit that of late, I have grown concerned. Since crossing the sea, I have worried that I left my heart across those waters. I do not know these lands, but I do know of the houses that tore my family from the throne in hatred. I am worried, Ser Jorah, that I may have hardened my heart a little too much in the face of the unknown upon arriving in Westeros," Dany confessed, though her poise yet held her with all the graces of a Queen. She spoke in earnest, not to seek sympathy, but to seek counsel. "I have given much thought of late to my thrones across the water, and how they came to be mine. I do not wish to rule over fearful people, Ser Jorah. I wish to rule over people who rejoice and love their Queen. I wish to rule over free people unafraid to speak, to offer their minds on the direction their kingdom takes. "

It was as true in his mind now as it had ever been — sometimes, Jorah could not believe the world had created such a person.

"I have no doubt in my mind, Khaleesi — yours will be a reign unlike any Westeros has ever known. You walk among your people, not above them."

Silence fell between the pair then, but it was not uncomfortable. Suddenly, the path from Essos unwound, reminding them both just how far Daenerys had come, of her battles, her victories, her strength.

"A just reign, supported by my most trusted advisors, of course," Daenerys replied with a smile, then gestured to the food she had brought in. "But for that, you will need your strength. You haven't eaten in days; please."

The man's head bowed, lip curling in a half-smile, before he obediently paced back to his bed, sitting down on the edge of it and taking the bowl with his one good hand. It looked innocent enough, a thin, simple broth filled with vegetables and meat. But the smell of it did not match what his eye was seeing. He glanced at Daenerys, wondering if he ought to risk asking.

"Did—did you have a hand in making this?" Jorah tried to ask in an offhand manner, but he saw Dany's eyes harden like lava in an instant.

"And if I did?"

"Nothing, nothing..." Jorah quickly retreated, looking back at the bowl of stew in his hand. "It's just...I know you prefer slightly more _spices_ in your cooking."

A memory loitered through his mind of the first time the Khaleesi had offered to help with the cooking for her Khalasar. While she had been quite happy eating the resulting inferno of spices, the camp had fallen into a chaos of coughing and spluttering, with some of the Dothraki putting up valiant efforts to act as though the spices didn't wound their tongues. Jorah, of course, had been one of them. Their streaming eyes betrayed them, and the Mormont knight was quite sure he hadn't been able to taste anything for the following week.

"And I know that _you _don't. But if it helps, I did not," Dany replied, looking more than a little amused as she no doubt also recalled the memory. Still, from the smell of the food, whoever had cooked it was undoubtedly not a natural.

But his Queen needed him at full strength, and for that, he needed to eat. Balancing the bowl on his lap, he speared some of the food and began to eat. The moment he did, however, he was overcome with the violent need to retch. The vegetables tasted rotten, as though they had gone off a lifetime ago. The meat tasted so rancid that the sourness rose up the back of his throat to his nose and threatened to gag him.

Slowly, Jorah put his fork down, trying to keep his face straight, and set the bowl back at the bedside. Of course, the movement did not go unnoticed.

"Ser? What's wrong?"

Despite all his attempts, he could not even swallow this mouthful to be polite. The muscles in his throat constricted, refusing to cooperate. And the vile taste only increased, drowning his senses in something so utterly rancid that he could scarcely breathe.

With a pang of shame, Jorah dart to his feet to the window in time for his stomach to coil and be violently sick. He spat the food from his mouth, with little other than water and bile able to come up from his stomach. Jorah was left retching painfully for a few moments, then straightened up shakily. Turning, he felt his face burning in embarrassment of being quite so undignified in from of his Queen.

"A-Apologies, Your Grace...I fear that the food in the stores may well be rotten," Jorah's apology was not received, however, as Dany had walked to the bedside. In one, fluid movement, she pick up some of the food on the fork and ate a small amount, even as Jorah heard himself protest in warning.

A few moments of chewing, and then...nothing. Dany looked to her knight, bewildered.

"No...it's fine." Something in her face told Jorah that Dany's mind was elsewhere, piecing together some puzzle to which he wasn't aware there were even pieces of. Quite suddenly, the silver-haired woman picked up the bowl and swept swiftly from the room, leaving Jorah stunned for a second before asking after her.

"Khaleesi?"

She turned at the door, with a smile that didn't quite assure her own eyes let alone Jorah's mind.

"You need to eat _something_. I will ask the cooks to prepare something else, and then, we can discuss King's Landing."

* * *

When the Queen returned some time later, she came bearing a meal that seemed built to be the opposite of the previous meal. That was, where the first meal had looked well-made and smelt abhorrent, this one looked a shambles and smelt quite appealing. Jorah couldn't help but wonder if something had indeed been left behind in his unnatural return to the world as he studied the smouldering, burnt mess of what looked to be utter charcoal on the plate now sitting on the table.

"I see the cook took kindly to me sending my supper back," Jorah said dryly, turning the lump of what he suspected to be mutton over to see the underside was just as blackened and burnt. It really couldn't look less appealing, but the scent of it twisting his empty stomach to a growl.

"Different cook this time," Dany replied from where she was sitting in an armchair in the corner. Her attention was fixed on a book she had brought in under her arm, though he hadn't asked what it was she was reading. With her response, Jorah resigned himself to attempting to eat the strange meal. With only one hand functional, he had to stab at the toughened, throughly-burnt meat with a knife and tear a mouthful away with his teeth — he was quite grateful that the book served to keep the Dragon Queen's attention away from this rather stumbling motion.

It was horribly burnt, and tough to chew as a result. And yet, for all the world it tasted like a meal from a banquet table. Before he cared to realise, in his hunger, Ser Jorah had devoured the lot. He could taste the charred meat, the sooty, bitter taste still coating his mouth, and yet, the taste was quite satisfying.

Half in confusion, and half in rejection of the notion, Jorah pushed the now-empty plate away a little. He assumed something had been knocked amiss during the rather unusual method of his return.

"Khaleesi. If I may ask — how did you..." The question tripped on his tongue, an instinct against the absurd, though he battled through it. "How did you bring me back?"

Jorah turned to face her, noting that the Queen had forgone her reading. Amethyst eyes fixed on the empty plate, and once again, Jorah saw her sharp mind assembling pieces he still couldn't see. His question, of course, was to try and shed light on the board that he might know what strange puzzle his Queen was trying to decipher.

"It was as I told you," she said, her voice oddly distracted and without focus. "The magic bound in flames. The same flames that brought eons-petrified dragon eggs back into this world." Daenerys then blinked, clearing her eyes and focusing on Jorah, "The Red Priests called it the Lord of Light. A worship of fire and a deity who was the source of it. Once such priest restored a dead man back unto this world, according to Ser Davos. I found the tool that priest used, but I needed not beg the Lord of Light to lend me his flame — fire is mine. It has always been my magic.

"Mirri Maz Duur's life wove into the flames that I used to bring forth my dragons. I don't know how, but I knew this the moment I stepped into the pyre. Just as I know that the fire my dragons breathe is woven with my magic. I have always known the truth of dragons — they are destruction, but they are also creation. My dragons have forged so many things, created so much for me...but in truth," The Queen ended her explanation simply, "it was very much an accident that brought the priest's ruby and dragonfire together. But once they did, I used the Red Woman's tools to channel dragonfire and all its energy, that I could bring you back without harm. That I could separate creation from destruction."

Jorah felt his brow furrow, pulling a little painfully on the burn that still tightened uncomfortably against one side of his face. Daenerys' instinct for fire and the magic it held was unquestionable, and yet, the man could not help but worry something was missing. Nothing came without a price.

"And this tool...could you use it again?"

Daenerys' eyes cast down to the ground, and though sorrow came to her voice, it did not ebb her strength.

"If I could, I would bring back all who fought and died for me. But dragonfire is...potent. The gemstone shattered as soon as your eyes were open."

_Surely the destruction of this artefact could not be the price paid_, Jorah thought sullenly, finally seeing some of the pieces Daenerys appeared to be ruminating over, but not able to make enough sense of them. He could not shake the echoing thought: _a life for a life. _

Which poor soul had paid for this that they could not yet see? Or, though it did not bear thinking about, was the price yet to come?

Apparently sensing the disquiet in Jorah's mood, Daenerys spoke of lighter things as she asked: "I take it the food was better this time?"

Jorah startled out of his brooding and considered the empty plate.

_Burnt to cinders_, he thought, wondering if this was another piece to consider. It seemed to recall something of a memory in his mind, something of significance, but for the life of him, Jorah couldn't place it.

"Yes, oddly," he replied, "though I usually prefer my meat rare. Perhaps my tastebuds weren't brought back to life along with the rest of me."

Though she looked half-trapped in her thoughts, Dany replied:

"I'll be sure to pass your compliments on to the chef. Truth be told, he's only ever cooked for himself before."

* * *

The Queen had left not long after that, with myriad tasks and fulfillments to attend to before the day was to be done. Jorah whiled away the hours between bouts of rest and some sly attempts to return to strength by exercising his left arm through basic swordsmanship, given that his preferred sword arm may well have been damaged beyond repair for all he knew.

As the light fled and night settled in once more, a knock at the door heralded the return of the maester that had naturally offered to attend him through his recovery. Jorah couldn't help but feel that Samwell was at odds with himself, between mourning his family and trying to serve the Queen his former commander had such faith in. It was a situation that truly had no amiable course of action, and there was little Jorah could offer Samwell to help him. Grief didn't need a guide; it needed to simply be.

He watched in silence as Sam began peeling the bandages away from his arm, peering to try and see just how ruined his sword arm might be. From the little hum of surprise, Jorah could only assume it was healing well, as he couldn't see much of it himself yet.

"The good news is I think your arm is on the way to recovery," Sam noted, turning and tilting his head to examine the limb. With the bandages fully pulled away, Jorah could see the flesh had indeed lost most of the scorched damage. "Very quickly, in fact."

The scarring was quite noticeable, though Jorah cared very little so long as it didn't restrict the movements of his arm or shoulder. He couldn't help but observe the fact the burned flesh hadn't scarred smooth, rather, the skin looked almost like shattered glass, with lumps raised here and there as though something was pushing up from under his skin. The skin itself still felt a little raw to touch, especially on the raised bump littered long it, but the knight tried to roll his shoulder a little anyway — the movement was aching and sore, but he was satisfied that he had completed the small task.

Samwell then set about attending to the burn on Jorah's face. It had healed fairly well, thanks to the maester's work no doubt. He felt Sam's hand over his eye socket, finger and thumb prying a little at his closed eyelids.

"Still can't open it," Jorah grumbled, having grown quite tired of stumbling and knocking things over thanks to his half-vision.

"I can't imagine so — the skin's burned together in places, although..." Sam's voice trailed off, and he pulled at the lid again, a little harder than before. This time, small specks of light broke through, nearly making Jorah flinch. "it's not affecting the whole lid. I could cut the fused areas, if you like. It'll sting a bit, and for the love of the Mother do _not _move while I'm doing it or I'll have your eye out."

Jorah couldn't help but scoff.

"I'm starting to think you just like cutting things, maester."

Sam had already picked up his scalpel, and gave Jorah an honest shrug.

"You'd think I'd be better with a sword, really," he said, a sheepish chuckle wrapped around his own jest.

Undoubtedly, the process was not comfortable. But it was a far cry from the last procedure he'd endured, and for the most part, Jorah didn't make a sound save for the occasional growl of discomfort. He felt a little blood trickling, but once the delicate process was finished, Sam quickly mopped up the blood and leant back to examine his work.

"_That_...should do it. I can't do much about your eyelashes being burnt off, mind. Right — let's see the damage beneath, shall we?"

The maester leant back in, applying his finger on Jorah's top eyelid and his thumb to the lower eyelid and gentle prying them apart. It stung and brought tears prickling, the candlelight blurring in his right eye and seeming too-bright for the moment, before his eye adjusted to being able to see again. Jorah was about to comment on this luck, that the eye itself seemed to be unharmed, but the maester all but fell backwards and away from him in shock. Jorah could only stare in confusion, eyebrows knotted, at the striking reaction Sam had had to whatever it was he had seen in his damaged eye socket. The master's face was waxen and pale as he stammered:

"S-Seven _**Hells!**_"


	6. Chapter 6

**_CHAPTER 6 _**

**_-Daenerys- _**

Her night was filled once more with nightmares. Of burning eyes in the cold darkness, of skin sloughing off to scales. Of death and pyres, and the life she brought forth from those flames — her magic was unruly, untamed, and so was the life it restored.

She dreamt of Rhaego, the poor son who was never meant to be, half-rotten and twisted with scales and leathery wings. Created and destroyed in equal measure by the blood of the dragon.

She dreamt of Viserion, watched the life leave his eyes as the words drummed into her mind: _the dragon must have three heads._

She dreamt of a bear, following obediently along behind her, despite blades riddling its body. Dany turned to tend to its wounds, but, upon pulling the blades clear, fire poured from the injuries like blood and—

Daenerys awoke with a start to the sound of hammering at her door. Groggily, she rose, casting a tired look out the window. The moon still cut the sky with silver: who would wake her at this hour?

Opening the door, the Silver Queen met with a rather startled and ruffled looking maester. Whatever had happened, it had sent Samwell running, and running to her. Daenerys felt her chest twist in fear, for there were few reasons that would bring Samwell Tarly willingly to her presence.

"Y—Your Grace. Forgive me, but I think you should—"

She didn't give him time to finish his sentence, already whirling from the doorway and out into the corridor, heading quickly towards Jorah's quarters.

"What's happened?" Dany asked over her shoulder, hearing Samwell jogging to catch up.

"He's fine, Your Grace, well, he seems fine," Sam tried to explain, "but...something's definitely not right. And truth be told, it looks more your area of expertise than mine."

Daenerys felt the worry from her nightmare echo into reality. A price to be paid, every step she took demanded a price of those closest to her it seemed.

Neglecting to knock, Daenerys entered Jorah's room, finding her knight sitting by the windowsill. He was on his feet as soon as he saw her appear, a bow of the head as second nature.

His right arm was unbandaged, revealing scars on that side as heavy as those on his left. The bandages on his torso and chest remained in place, and for the first time since she had brought him back, both his eyes were open.

Amethyst eyes met sparkling blues, though the eyes that found hers were terribly mismatched. Jorah's right eye was filled with the same blue of his left iris, but the colour bled to block out any white. Most strikingly, the pupil was split thin and vertical, sharpening his gaze.

Silently, not able to stop staring in spite of her logical mind pointing out how rude it was of her, Daenerys stepped slowly towards her knight.

_Gods, what rest have I robbed him of? What have I done to him?_

He knew her too well, knew that tell-tale jaw tension that frequently betrayed her.

"It's fine," Jorah said quite simply, as though it truly was anything of the sort, "I can see properly and I can swing a sword accurately for it."

Dany saw his glance flick over her shoulder to scowl at Sam; no doubt Jorah felt waking her for this was quite unnecessary. She turned to face Sam, her look far from withering.

"Thank you for alerting me," she said, noting the uncomfortable expression in Sam's own eyes, "is this the extent of it?"

She almost laughed at her own question — as though this clearly unnatural change were not enough. Sam half shook his head, half shrugged in a clear display of his own uncertainty.

"Other than the dragonscale in his wounds and now this?" He replied, (Daenerys heard Jorah's confused echo of "_Dragonscale_?" behind her), "Not yet. I was going to remove all of his bandages though. To say I'm concerned what might be underneath might be a little bit of an understatement."

Concerned he may be, but they all knew nothing would come of ignoring the problem. She gave a curt nod, both in understanding and in prompt for him to continue his treatment. Sam gave a jerky, sharp nod, then moved around the Queen to tend to Jorah once more.

"What of dragonscales?" Jorah asked again, as Sam busied himself with the complicated tangle of bandages around his body.

"One of the wounds on your shoulder...when Maester Tarly was cleaning it, he found something was holding the injury open, preventing it from healing," Dany confessed to him, sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands folded neatly in her lap. "It was...there was a dragonscale caught in there. I had no idea where it had come from, nor how it came to be lodged in a wound, but now—"

"—But now I think it's safe to say it came from you, Ser Jorah," Sam interrupted, pausing in his bandage-removing and peering with half-horrified curiosity at one of the healed injuries on Jorah's upper back. Quickly, Dany was on her feet to join him, looking over Sam's shoulder.

Her eyes locked on the peculiar sight presented to her, even more bizarre than Jorah's now-uneven eyes. There were a number of sealed wounds on his back (Dany shuddered as she recalled each one occurring before her eyes), but they had not sealed as scar tissue to match the many other old scars the knight bore. Instead, the wounds were sealed in lines of scales, the same burning copper colour as the scale they had removed from his shoulder.

Perplexed, Daenerys reached out to run the flat of her index finger along one of the ragged lines of scales. Rough to the point of being sharp, and exuding heat, there was no question of what they were.

"C-Can you feel that?" Sam asked the knight, who had recoiled in shock of suddenly being touched after the long silence. Dany saw Jorah look over his shoulder, though he wouldn't be able to see the ribbons of scales along his back where new scars ought to have been.

"Yes. Not well, though," he admitted, his knotted brow hinting to his frustration at not fully knowing what was happening.

Dany let her hand fall slowly, fingers curling under the remaining bandages. She began to unravel them as she walked to stand in front of him again, pulling them away to reveal that final, fatal wound over Jorah's heart. A torn starburst in the centre of his chest, a flash of memory momentarily blinding her — of her knight shoving her away so that he could shield her with his exhausted body, the sword intended to strike her down piercing him square through the chest...

Jorah looked down at what should have been a collection of fresh scars small and large, and saw as she saw; shredded skin healed into lines of russet scales. Absently, the man brought a hand up to run his own hand over the largest patch; the wound in the centre of his chest.

Eyes flicked to Dany, and she wasn't quite quick enough to hide the worry in her eyes.

"An extra layer of armour," Jorah observed gruffly, "can't complain about that."

* * *

Despite the strange manner of his recovery, Jorah certainly seemed to be going from strength to strength. Though she had eventually confided in him that the meat he had been eating of late was served up by none other than Drogon, Jorah seemed less concerned about that than the idea of Dany trying to take a portion of the colossal dragon's hunt away for him.

He assured her he didn't care what happened to his appearance. All that mattered, Jorah said, was that he was able to serve by her side.

She felt selfish to admit it to herself, but having experienced the loss of her closest advisor, Dany would have revived him any way she could, even if she knew he would return looking a little less human.

After a few more days, Ser Jorah was close to an all-clear from the maester. Sam's only concern was Jorah's temperature.

"He's still boiling up," Sam had noted, "though all things considered, I suppose that makes sense. Still, I would like to try and lower it a little; Ser Jorah is no Targaryen, this heat can't be good for him. Spend a little time outside — the fresh air and, I'm hoping, the snow might help."

So it was that the Queen and her knight would head out of the castle and out into the snowy fields. Dany had offered to join him, and of course, Jorah would not decline the company. Before they left, Daenerys offered a small token to Jorah.

"I thought you might prefer this than answering questions," Dany smiled, holding out a small box. She watched as Jorah took with a small bow, though his expression was one of bewilderment. Accepting gifts was certainly not a strong suit of her bear.

Gloved hands opened the little wooden box to reveal a leather eyepatch, dyed midnight black. The patch itself was emblazoned around the edges in the three silver circling dragon heads that Daenerys had adopted for her personal sigil. The small smile, nearly hidden by his bowed head, did not escape her notice.

"Thank you, Khaleesi."

With his eye covered from potential questions, the pair made their way out into the snow. The freshly fallen plumes were soft underfoot, squeaking and lightly crunching as their boots pushed through it. It was a far cry from the harsh, brutal cold that had greeted Daenerys upon her arrival to Winterfell, and for the first time, she found herself appreciating the fresh feeling of cool air on her skin.

"You must be restless, Khaleesi," Jorah noted as they walked, "you've come so far, and the Iron Throne is within your grasp."

A simple observation, clear and true, but one that was weighed with so much to consider. It excited her, her calling within reach, and though she knew it necessary the wait to finally march on King's Landing pained her. But the Queen knew this pain paled to the resting troops and soldiers who had fought for her. She would not march until they were ready to fight with all they had.

"I am," the Silver Queen admitted, "but I will not waste everything I have fought for for my own impatience. Unlike Cersei, I don't seek the throne merely for a crown." She gave Jorah a knowing look, lips curled coyly, "I already had a number of crowns before I crossed the sea."

Jorah's gaze faltered on her for a moment, one of those rare and genuine smiles softening his features. Daenerys knew this was one born of his other love for her: as a subject loves his queen. It was one of the treasures she held closest, one of the losses that broke her heart the most when he had died in her arms.

"You still mean to break the wheel," he said finally, "but how?"

They had strolled absently to a small hill a little distance from Winterfell's castle grounds, instinctively finding her resting dragons. Drogon's thunder-rumble of a growl sounded as he raised his head; not threatening the arrival of the pair, but acknowledging them in greeting.

The silver-haired woman rested a hand upon Drogon's obsidian snout in return of his greeting. The scales felt blessedly warm in this winter world.

"I have been told many times that the common folk don't care who sits on the throne," Dany finally answered, watching as Ser Jorah removed his outer coat and lay it on the ground that they could sit without the snow's uncomfortable bite. "I disagree."

She sat herself down, then patted the space next to her, knowing Jorah would not presume to sit so close to his Queen without such permission. He nodded silently in response, and sat beside her.

The pair looked out over the frost-blanketed lands of the North as Dany explained her rationale:

"The people have grown not to care who sits on the throne because it has been so long since they have seen a true king or queen there. For years, they've had tyrants that merely changed faces. People who sought the throne for power and gold, not to serve the realm, but to have the realm serve their greed. These people have become slaves under false kings and queens.

"I know the truth. A ruler serves the realm. A ruler leads from among the people, not above them. I will break the wheel, and break the chains of tyrants. I will free these people and reclaim their throne from those who stole it from them. I will forge the Iron Throne anew as a symbol of strength and pride for the realm."

As if in agreement, Drogon save a soft rumble, neck snaking around the pair to nuzzle at Daenerys' side. She started petting his snout again, wondering if the huge creature could even feel her hand against his plate-armour scales. Then again, perhaps he did, given what she had learned from Jorah's strange scars. She found her voice once more:

"But...ever since coming here. Ever since I have witnessed the eyes and words of the people here when presented with a Targaryen...I confessed my reasons for wanting to take the throne have split," Daenerys spoke honestly, openly, with words tinged in more than a little sadness. The thoughts had plagued her, and between the pressures of war and the aftermath of its cost, she had been somewhat susceptible to the darker whispers of her mind. "Part of me desires to reclaim the throne for my family. To repair—no—to avenge that wrong against my blood."

She turned to look at Jorah, and despite her words, she saw no fear in his eyes that she might be echoing her late father. No paling of the face that the coin had flipped against the world's favour. Despite having experienced Aerys' rule, Jorah was one of the few that Dany could trust not to compare every move and every word she made against the Mad King's own. Before being a Queen, she was human. But the pressure to never show an ounce of anger or panic, lest she be held to the same light as her father, was immense.

It was nice to be able to speak as Daenerys, and not the Dragon Queen. It was freeing to be heard as Dany, and not the daughter of Aerys.

Jorah shifted where he was sitting, laying one arm to rest over his knee, which was folded up in front of him. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, before he spoke calmly:

"Your family is important. That you want to right those wrongs, both the ones they did and the ones done unto them, is quite natural. But you know better than anyone that it is unfair to hold you accountable for your father's mistakes...just as it would be unfair to hold the world accountable for the betrayal of your family. At some point, someone has to stop pursuing their revenge for the chain to end there. Remember, House Targaryen was indeed a great and noble house — but it fell. Targaryens valued blood family above all, and it crumbled under the weight of it. A mistake House Lannister is repeating."

Dany turned her attention back to Drogon, taking solace in petting him and absorbing Jorah's counsel. She knew he spoke sense, for it was the same thing she had told herself; she could indeed demand revenge from everyone remotely involved in the rebellion against her family's rule. But doing so would change nothing, and the wheel would keep turning. A wheel of revenge, of nobles, of power, and of gold.

"I'll change it all," Daenerys resolved, "the throne. The kingdom. House Targaryen. Everything."

"You already have," Jorah pointed out, leaning back to turn his gaze away from the horizon to his Queen, "there are already so many in your reforged House Targaryen with loyalty running in their veins."

* * *

Eventually, the Queen and her knight began their journey back to Winterfell, the lure of a warm fire against the cold that was quickly drawing in too much to ignore. And yet, as they made their way through the snow, Dany decided she wasn't quite ready to return to her role. She wanted just a moment more outside the castle walls, a moment more away from talk of war and traitors and thrones.

She allowed her feet to fall into a slower pace, letting Jorah unwittingly take a few steps ahead of them past the small cluster of trees that grew a short distance from the castle. Gracefully, she lowered and scooped up a handful of snow in her gloved hand, though the chill still bit through the material to her palms a little. Then, as she had seen the Northern children do around the castle, Dany squeezed the snow tightly between her hands, making a crude snowball, though it was awfully misshapen for her lack of practice.

Her knight picked up on Dany's slower pace then and turned quickly.

"Khale—"

_Whack!_

The snowy missile exploded clumsily at the side of Jorah's neck, showering the front of his coat in snow. Plenty of it caught under his collar too, if the gasp of surprise was anything to go by. Daenerys couldn't help it — she could only laugh at her poor bear trying to hurriedly scoop snow out from between the collar of his shirt and his skin.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, that—that wasn't meant to happen!" Dany managed to offer out, an apology somewhat lacking sincerity for her laughing, though she did move forward to help brush the snow away from his clothing.

Jorah looked at her then, and Dany saw something new cross his face for a moment, glittering in his eye. She realised too late that it was mischief, as the taller man silently lifted one arm and grabbed the tree branch hanging above her. He pulled it down, then let it go sharply, causing a deluge of snow to rain down over the Silver Queen.

Daenerys inhaled sharply and screwed her eyes shut, an audible and prolonged gasp of utter shock and surprise as the sudden icy cold showered over her face and neck. She shook her head, braids loosening a little as she did so, and brushed the snow from her eyes. She could hear Jorah laughing, a rough, gravelly sound that somehow still retained an impossible smoothness and depth.

"Forgive me, Khaleesi! I didn't expect that much snow to fall," he said, almost moving to help brush the snow off her in turn, but pausing in clear concern of overstepping his mark.

Without responding verbally, Daenerys bent down and put both hands in the snow. In one fluid movement, she straightened up and hauled up a wave of snow with her arms. The spray sent Jorah stumbling backwards, followed by Dany laughing and then running to put distance between them. Quickly, breath coming in pants of silvery clouds for her exertion, she built another snowball and threw it at her knight. This one hit him on the arm, though she did feel a little bit bad that he wouldn't likely be as so bold as to throw a snowball back.

_Splat!_

Oh, how wrong she was. A small snowball landed deftly against her shoulder, spraying her with icy flakes. She beamed, and continued to run through the snow in case more were to follow. But the Targaryen was ill-used to the icy footing — she tripped and fell bodily into the soft snow.

Rolling onto her back, Daenerys couldn't get to her feet for laughing. A few moments passed before her knight caught up with her. He paused to consider the giddy Queen for a second, then offered her his hand. She took it gratefully, getting to her feet and brushing the plumes of snow from her coat.

"May I?" Jorah asked, gesturing to her hair. She started to try and brush the snow from it, but nodded as well for his assistance. Eventually, they managed to get most of the ice out of her silvery locks, though she could still feel the snow's chill gripping her skin, her teeth beginning to chatter and the tip of her nose almost painfully cold.

Her knight removed his thick cloak, shaking the snow from it and then wrapping her in its warmth. Daenerys held onto it, snuggling it close to chase away the chill. Despite the shivering, she couldn't stop smiling.

"Thank you...I see now why Northerners are so fond of warming their wines..." she spoke around her chattering teeth, recalling how often she had declined the spiced, steaming drink since arriving, "I think I should finally like to experience that."


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Apologies this one took a little longer than usual; I had to spend a great deal of time staring at a map of Westeros to make sure everything worked in their plan! If anyone spots a fault, forgive me — but I trust we're all well-versed in exercising a little suspension of disbelief after watching Season 8, no? ;-)**

* * *

_**CHAPTER 7 **_

_**-Jorah- **_

In the days that followed, there was little time for such frivolity as their short escapade into the snow. With numbers accounted for and the dead honoured, attentions turned to the war table once more, the pieces having decidedly lessened.

Over half of the Dothraki had been killed. As friends — no — a new _family_ since their exile to Essos, their loss hit both Daenerys and Jorah hard. When the throne was won, Daenerys had promised the horselord survivors that their dead, who had served to protect Westeros, a nation who had given the Dothraki little but venom, would be proudly memorialised in King's Landing. The dead rode proudly with Khal Drogo, she had proclaimed, and they would be watching those left in the world of the living. They would find their victory, for the glory of their fallen. For the blood of their blood.

Many of the Unsullied had fallen protecting the retreat. Their names, their own chosen names, would be remembered in song, for they were no longer slaves, Daenerys reminded them, but soldiers and knights who defended a foreign realm and its people. They would find victory for their fallen, and they would not let chains snake across the wrists of any person their shields could yet defend.

House Karstark had fallen, as had House Mormont for all intents and purposes — as he had pointed out himself, Jorah had long since been stripped of his Lordship, and was still and exile on the run from House Stark's execution. He could not reinstate himself into House Mormont, he had told Daenerys.

"Then I will reinstate you," Dany had responded simply and curtly, only for the knight to decline.

"It would not sit well with the Northerners to have a Targaryen monarch overrule House Stark," he had explained, noting the annoyance growing in Dany's eyes. "Our allegiance is secured, but it is by no means stable. Best not do anything to tip that delicate balance."

So it was that House Mormont, for the moment at least, removed from the war table.

The discussions went on for hours, and before long Jorah could feel that sickly, prickling heat rising under his skin and through his veins. The fever had not truly let go, and every now and then it resurged in bouts of intensity, as if to remind him of the fire that now fed his very life force. A fire not meant for a mere bear, but for a dragon.

It still worried at his mind that the true cost had not been found. There had to be one, and more than a monstrous eye and a few rows of scales upon his skin.

"No. We cannot risk flying over open water," Daenerys' voice cut through Jorah's thoughts, bringing him back to the matter at hand. She was in the middle of dismissing a plan of action. "I would be reliant on cloud cover to evade a potential attack, and if the skies are clear, my dragons would be open targets for her Scorpions. I have no doubt she has had many more made, as well as seaworthy ones. Besides, my forces are ill-suited to battle by sea. Cersei's forces, on the other hand," Dany picked up the wooden icons for the Iron Fleet and the Golden Company, "are experts at it. It's too risky."

"Agreed. But we need a position by the sea in order to prevent any supplies reaching King's Landing," Tyrion commented, the story upon his face telling of that sharp mind working to unravel the problem presented to them. "We could move a portion of our forces to Harrenhal. It is currently leaderless, and there's a good chance Cersei does not realise yet that Lord Baelish is dead, or does not have time or the forces spare to take it if she does know. If so, she will not have looked towards Harrenhal for some time."

Jon moved towards the war table next, and Jorah felt himself observing the other man closely. He could not deny the underlying thread of jealousy that brought a stiffness to his jaw whenever the other man was in his presence, but prior to being brought back to life, it had simply been a natural reaction of his heart that Jorah could live with. After all, if he could separate the pain of his unreturned love for Daenerys from the joy of his reciprocated platonic love between a knight and his Queen without tarnishing it, then dismissing jealousy before it could take root in something darker was a simple task.

Or it had been, before flames snaked into his veins. Jorah tersely looked away, trying to ignore the fact he had noticed Jon had been unable to even look at Daenerys of late. Jorah had dared not ask his Queen why.

"We can send the Dothraki and Unsullied as the majority there then, as they are far better suited to travel over land, as Your Grace says," Jon agreed. "But we can't ignore the strategic advantage of Dragonstone. Some of our forces will have to head by sea. We have a handful of Greyjoys at hand, and Ser Davos knows these waters better than any of us."

Jorah kept his one, uncovered eye trained on the roaring fireplace off to the right of the table. Splitting their forces was wise enough, but it didn't solve the main issue at hand:

"With our forces stationed, then what? King's Landing will be heavily prepared for an assault, direct or not. Cersei knows we cannot risk a frontal assault, and aerial approach with Drogon and Rhaegal is out of the question here. We're not fighting tens of thousands of undead between us and a monarch this time — the false queen sits behind tens of thousands of innocent people. She will be quite prepared to let them starve to death, and no doubt has provisions stocked for herself. A blockade is pressure, but it would be costly to the common folk too."

A silence dropped across the room, though not of despair but of thought. There had to be something they were missing...not by land, by sea, or by air.

"The tunnels," Tyrion suddenly spoke, moving his hand from where it had been twisting his beard in thought as he mulled over the matter. He turned quickly to look at Varys, earning something of a disapproving look from the Spider. Clearly, this was his information and he didn't want it shared so readily. "There are tunnels under the Red Keep. Does Cersei know of them?"

"Few did, until now," Varys replied dryly, folding his hands into his silken sleeves. "And their exits are close to King's Landing itself. The furthest from King's Landing would be the exit that leads out to the cliffs over Blackwater Rush, to the south," The Spider unfurled one hand to tap on the war table at the location in question.

Jorah approached the table then, leaning to point further up the river from where Varys had.

"Stoney Sept is near the headwaters of Blackwater Rush. Last I heard, the town was under House Tully's leadership. We would be safe enough there, and even if we could not use the tunnels, it's strategically well-placed."

"True," Varys agreed in a voice like ribbons, smooth and always tangled to ensnare. "Plus, the new Prince of Dorne has voiced his support of the Targaryen Queen. We could send word to him to send forces here from the south and meet in Stoney Sept. The reinforcement of our numbers could be the key to victory."

Daenerys began to slid the pieces representing their dwindled forces; some to Dragonstone, comprising mainly of the scattered few Greyjoys that had come with Theon before the war, and a handful of Unsullied and Stark forces; some to Harrenhal, namely the Dothraki and other Northmen; and some to Stony Sept, comprising of the remaining Unsullied and her dragons. Blank tokens were placed further south in Dorne, in hopes of this potential support.

"My dragons will be safest here," she said, more to herself than to the room Jorah felt. "Stoney Sept is near the mountains. If we should endure a surprise attack, my dragons will have the advantage of mountain cover, and our enemies will struggle with the footing."

"Thought dragonscale was meant to be tougher than fucking steel," the unceremonious tones of Sandor Clegane growled from his seat in the corner, where the man had elected to make a show of disinterest until now. "How'd your however-many-great-uncle-grandfather conquer all of fucking Westeros with a dragon and you can't even take King's Landing?"

The silence that followed was suffocating, with the Dragon Queen's burning look pinning the Hound beneath it.

"I could," she answered, both words as sharp as swords and cutting down whatever intimidation Clegane had hoped to muster. "But I don't intend to be the Queen of Cinders. Only those who raise a blade against me or my people will put to fire."

Watching as Clegane got to his feet, towering over the Targaryen, Jorah felt his hand fall to the hilt of his sword at his side, foot shifting slightly to move if the man came any closer. He did not know the Hound well beyond his reputation, but that was enough.

A smirk twisted Clegane's half-burned lips, though if Jorah wasn't mistaken, something of a glimmer of respect passed over his features as Daenerys remained standing exactly where she was, moving only to crane her neck back to keep her eyes locked on his.

"And what about those who raise Scorpions? Seems to be a pretty big fucking weakness for your flying lizards if they can be shot down that easily."

Dany's brows raised, a smile breaking through her previously-unmoving mask as a mocking laugh parted her lips.

"_Easily_? Tell me, Clegane...do you know how many dragons have fallen to those contraptions?"

The man did not answer, remaining staring pointedly at the Silver Queen. Jorah was frozen in place not in fear, but coiled like a spring. At the slightest move, his sword would be at Clegane's throat, a fight he knew would certainly not be an easy one. House Clegane was well-known on the battlefield for utter brutality, as well as their unfiltered manner of speech.

Daenerys turned away from Clegane, walking around the length of the table to rest a hand on a pile of books that rested at the head of the table. The topmost book, Jorah realised, was the same one she had been reading the night she had brought him something to eat after he had awoken properly. In better light, he recognised the tome as one of the books of Westerosi songs and history that he himself had gifted to her on her wedding day. Its outer cover was sun-bleached and worn, as the Mormont was somewhat surprised it had survived all their travels.

"_Two_. During the first war against the Dornish, when a single bolt from a Scorpion brought down Meraxes. The Dornish were very proud of this kill, for it was the first in recorded history. So proud that they build swathes and swathes of the contraption, building all their strategies around this weapon, just as Cersei is doing now. The Dornish did succeed in piercing a dragon's wing after this, but little else. They had neglected the truth of Meraxes' fall. That single bolt found one of the few parts of a dragon not protected by dragonscales; their eyes. Luck was on their side that day, but it did not stay. They died in flames.

"The second did not immediately kill poor Vermax, but he fell to the ocean for its strike and perished beneath the waves. And I have seen one hamper Drogon's wing and bring him to ground. I will not risk flying over open seas. But over land, the advantage is ours."

Dany turned back to Clegane then, her gaze unwavering. "So, to answer your question — those who would raise a Scorpion to me or my people? They will die wishing they'd paid a little more attention to history so as not to repeat those mistakes. But I will not."

Jorah felt his heart swell with pride for his Queen's words. He had seen her war strategies in play before, her skills as a tactician honing from the counsel around her. How anyone in the North could yet deny her position as the ruler Westeros so desperately needed in order to rise from the ashes of tyrants was beyond him.

Clegane eventually gave a huff that might have passed as a chortle.

"Give it a week into your reign and you'll wish you had burned that shithole to the ground," he growled, but took his seat in the corner to resume his brooding once more. Jorah's hand relaxed on his sword, though his eye remained on Clegane. It was no secret why the man stayed with them — a blood score to be settled with his brother, who was within the walls of King's Landing. No doubt Clegane cared little if Daenerys burned the city to ashes, other than the fact it would rob him of his want to kill Ser Gregor. Had he pushed Daenerys to see if her anger would spark, or if he was truly safe to head into King's Landing without worry of her dragonfire hailing from above?

"We have a means directly into the Red Keep, but it won't hold an army," Tyrion brought their attention back to the table and the tunnels. "In fact, I daresay those tunnels wouldn't hold Clegane."

This earned a growl from the Hound, but little else.

"The walls closest to the Red Keep are thin as well. You can hear much from within these tunnels," Varys observed, though he still looked quite pained to reveal these secrets to so many. "But of course, the sound of many people stomping through the tunnels would be heard from within the Keep as well."

"The tunnels are still an advantage if played correctly, though a risky one," the Hand countered, his brow furrowing as he untangled the problems before them at speed. "Cersei's guards would be on alert immediately upon seeing any one of us, but the Golden Company might stay their tongues long enough to hear a counter-offer. They fight for the winning side, do they not?"

"They never break a contract," Jorah advised, his experience with the Golden Company proving this. "Or at least, that used to be so. Under their current commander, there have been whispers of the Company doing just that."

"Men are swayed more by gold than by reputation these days," Tyrion pointed out. "Is it possible we could offer them more than Cersei?"

"Nothing they would be interested in," Daenerys interjected, a darkened expression toning her voice sharp and cold. "This group was founded by rebels against my family, and whatever changes they have undergone, they remember their Blackfyre roots. My brother once tried to talk them into his cause. They merely laughed at him. They would never fight for a Targaryen."

"What about _not _fighting for a Targaryen?" The Queen's Hand asked aloud, the question posed to everyone including himself. "Could we offer them more than Cersei to simply _not _take part in the war at all?"

"You want us to hire the Golden Company to _not _fight for us or Cersei?" Jon reiterated, "You're paying them to leave?"

"Precisely!" Tyrion became more animated as the plan quickly and clearly cemented in his mind before their eyes. "What better offer could there be? More gold to turn around and go safely home. No war, no potential for being burnt to death, no fighting dragons, and more importantly, more money for it. They'd be mad not to."

Jorah mused over the ludicrous plan, though the more he did so, the more it made sense. Strickland was never much a warrior, preferring to lead the Golden Company by the purse rather than by the sword. It had been a point of growing unrest within the mercenaries of the company, in which Strickland's leadership fell mainly on his ancestry. Such an offer would no doubt ring well in his ears.

"Removing the Golden Company from play would certainly tilt the war heavily in our favour, even if the Dornish don't reinforce us," Varys commented, shifting the tokens for the Golden Company slightly away from the board before them with one fluid sweep of the back of his hand. It left Cercei's known forces looking worse for wear than their own to be sure.

"I suppose I ought to be part of the group heading through the tunnels then," Tyrion surmised, nodding to Jorah. "Care to join me on another adventure, Mormont?"

Jorah could feel the pain show on his face before he had chance to mask it. He made a note to pour wax into his ears to stifle the sound of the Lannister's incessant wittering before they were to leave…

* * *

The rest of the meeting was spent dividing tasks among the tri-split forces heading to Dragonstone, Harrenhal, and Stoney Sept respectively. One-by-one, people took their leave to begin preparations, and Jorah noted with some suspicion that Jon was among these people. Usually the man would stay behind after everyone else had left. But today, the Stark had quickly made his way from the room, leaving Daenerys and Jorah the only two at the war table.

He had seen the sorrow in Daenerys' eyes as the other man left, but dared not ask. But he quickly discovered he didn't need to. The Dragon Queen beckoned him to sit with her by the fire, and there, she regaled him with a story...of her late brother Rhaegar, of Robert Baratheon's love Lyanna Stark, and the truth of the wolf and the dragon. Of why the North-raised man struggled in her presence now.

_How has this secret remained hidden for so long? _Ser Jorah was stunned by what he heard, the truth of the current Targaryen bloodline.

"He...he is Aegon Targaryen. My...my nephew," Daenerys admitted in a half-whisper for what Jorah suspected to be the first time out loud, given the twisting of her features as she spoke them. "His claim to the throne is—"

Without thinking, Jorah leaned forward and took Daenerys' hands in his own, seeking to banish this thought before it could take root.

"—is _not_ a threat to you, Khaleesi."

Gemstone eyes focused on his scarred hands enveloping her own, and for a moment, Jorah feared she would snatch them away as she retreated into herself for fear of this apparent claim to her throne. She didn't, but her eyes did not lift from their joined hands.

"He could assert his claim," she noted, her voice void of emotion. For all the world, what she said was true in the current world. No matter how much she had fought, no matter how much she had proven, a simple word and the system of their monarchy would end Daenerys' uprising in the eyes of the law. The wheel would turn, bringing her claim from the skies down into the ground…

"I do not believe Jon would do that," Jorah admitted. True, he fostered jealousy for the other man; what sane man wouldn't? But in equal measure, he held respect for him. He was a good man, a just man — and whatever the truth of blood, he was certainly a reflection of Ned Stark's upbringing. Jorah was quite sure Jon was one of the few men in the world who not only felt no lure of the throne, but actively rejected it. "But even if he did...it doesn't matter. Clamouring claims and tangled bloodlines are part of the wheel that has brought the Iron Throne to where it is today — the seat of tyrants. The wheel _you _have sworn to break and free Westeros and its people from. A rightful ruler is one who proves themselves.

"Your claim to the throne is based on more than blood, Khaleesi. It is based on your actions and your heart. You were born many places down the line of succession to the throne; the wheel has always turned against you. And yet, you were born to be Queen. No matter what house banner you were born under, Daenerys Stormborn was always born to be Queen of Westeros."

Still, she did not look up from their joined hands, though Jorah thought he could see something of a smile echoing on her lips. Nothing but a ghost of a smile though, distant and sorrowful. When she did eventually look up and meet his eyes, it was with the resolution of a Queen. She spoke from the heart, but clearly and evenly, though the words seemed to come from nowhere:

"I could have loved you, Ser Jorah. Did you know that?'

The effect was instantaneous. Jorah's heart plunged to his gut, cold and frozen, and his limbs became leaden and refused to move. He felt his jaw clench, refusing to let him reply to this most dreadful of lamentations.

But the Dragon Queen continued. "You know well that I hold a great deal of love for you. You are my most trusted advisor, my closest friend. I have loved you and hated you, forgiven you and relied on you. But I did not fall in love with you."

He knew it well, and yet, the words did not cut any less deeper in his heart for the foreknowledge of them. He had always found some solace in the fact that Daenerys had simply never fallen in love with him; the heart chose as it wished after all. But from her words, Jorah felt that the Queen was pointing out a cause that _prevented _this love from forming. No doubt she meant his betrayal. This knowledge pained him far more than having thought she simply never felt the same for him — that he had had a hand in this. A perfect punishment, perhaps.

He had overstepped his mark, he thought to himself, and began to lean backwards, hands sliding away from Daenerys'.

Quick as a flash, her own grip tightened, preventing him from breaking their contact. Confused, Jorah wordlessly searched her face for answers. She gave none.

"Khaleesi, I—"

"You know this. And I know why you fought your way back to me, why you endured the pain of greyscale to return once more. But you have long since earned my forgiveness and had your redemption in my eyes. You have fought for me, and died for me...even though you know your love for me will not be returned. Why?"

He knew why. But the sudden baring of this wound robbed him of his voice for a moment. Swallowing against a dry throat, Ser Jorah spoke as his Queen demanded:

"I vowed to serve you. To protect you, and to die for you if need be. I still draw breath, so...here I stand."

Minute and possibly imagining it, he thought he saw Dany shaking her head a little, incredulous of his simple answer.

"But you fight with your whole heart. You fight with everything you have for something you think you will never know. If you have made peace with the idea that your love for me will not be returned, then what do you truly fight for? No man fights with as much fire as you simply to put their king or queen upon the throne."

_Do you truly not see? _Jorah wondered to himself. He sighed heavily, dropping his gaze to their hands once more as he spoke.

"Because you have given me the gift of your love, Khaleesi. Though it may not be the same sort of love that I have given you, it is no less a treasure of its own. I have no intention of tarnishing it with selfish and foolish thoughts that it is not enough — any form of love from your heart is priceless, and I will guard it with my life. However many times that may be."

Now it was Daenerys' turn to look stunned, purple eyes searching over his own scar-riddled face for something. Perhaps she wanted to find pain that might prove his raw words false, or perhaps she sought confirmation of these honest words. Did his confession really surprise her so? What sort of man would discard an emerald simply because he wanted a ruby more?

"Do you know _why_ I never loved you the way you had hoped?"

Why was she doing this to him, Jorah inwardly grieved. This was near cruelty. But he would answer her. He had to answer his Queen.

"Because...because, to my eternal shame, I betrayed you, Khaleesi," he could feel his voice tighten as he spoke of this. Jorah could not bear to meet her eyes.

"You did. The Userper promised you all you wanted in exchange for information on me. This wounded me, Ser Jorah, make no mistake. But...in time, as my anger cooled, I came to understand it. The offer was made before you knew me. And I know well that my bear prays for home. You would have been a fool to ignore his offer. And, upon witnessing my actions, you became loyal to me and rebuked the offer of finding your home. So, I ask you again: why do you think I did not fall in love with you?"

This brought Jorah to face her again, stunned and confused. But more than anything, pained. What was the purpose of this?

"I...I don't know, Your Grace. I know well I am not pleasing to look upon," he offered as a reason somewhat lacklustrely, recalling the oft-repeated words of his previous wife. "Or...perhaps you simply didn't. Must there be a reason?"

_It would hurt less if there wasn't, _he thought to himself meekly. _Please stop this game. _

Finally, Daenerys let go of his hand and got to her feet. Jorah hoped that whatever strange cruelty this was would be at an end now. He wasn't sure he wanted to know its cause or reason, for it was quite unlike anything he had seen from his Queen.

She had moved from their spot at the fireplace to look out of the window that shone opposite to the head of the war table. The setting sun emblazoned her silver hair in tones of amber and scarlet.

"I couldn't love you...because you're my knight," Daenerys admitted. "You are sworn to protect me and give your life for me. That has always been within my mind; there was always the possibility you would be killed because of me and I couldn't bear the heartache of that loss. I thought I was protecting myself. Protecting my heart," Dany turned then, the purple of her irises alight with restrained grief. "But then you _did_ die, Ser Jorah. In my arms. And despite the shields I had placed around it, my heart broke all the same — all the _more_, because I had closed my eyes and turned away from the truest form of love ever offered to me. Because I could not bear to risk shattering it. And then it was gone. And all I could feel as the light left your eyes was grief. For the love I could not ever let grow. For both of our sakes."

The world seemed to pause in this moment, the colour draining in everything save for her eyes. He couldn't think. He couldn't move. He couldn't _fathom _what the Dragon Queen's words meant.

And for all the world, Jorah had not thought it possible for his heart to break any further.


	8. Chapter 8

_**CHAPTER 8**_

_**-Daenerys-**_

"I couldn't love you...because you're my knight," Daenerys admitted, finally giving life to the truth that for so long had remained for only her to know. "You are sworn to protect me and give your life for me. That has always been within my mind; there was always the possibility you would be killed because of me and I couldn't bear the heartache of that loss. I thought I was protecting myself. Protecting my heart. But then you _did_ die Ser Jorah," Dany turned away from the distraught man sitting opposite her, as a deluge of memories, painful and still raw in her heart, dredged forth as she recounted one of the darkest nights of her life. "In my arms. And despite the shields I had placed around it, my heart broke all the same — all the _more_, because I had closed my eyes and turned away from the truest form of love ever offered to me. Because I could not bear to risk shattering it. And then it was gone. And all I could feel as the light left your eyes was grief. For the love I could not ever let grow. For both of our sakes."

She could still remember the agony of realising he was slipping away, leaving her alone in a world too cruel to walk alone. Daenerys remembered feeling a physical pain jolting through her whole body as she wailed in grief, the immediate loss too much to process in the single second it happened. One moment, Ser Jorah was there to ensure her survival, and she fought alongside him, believing they could survive this, that nothing could break their strength.

And then the world reminded Daenerys of the truth — _valar morghulis_. Being her strength and support, her shield and sword, her friend and advisor, none of these things mattered in the eyes of the world. The sacrifice she had silently made to keep herself from falling in love with one who she knew would give everything to keep her alive meant nothing to the world. Jorah had died, and those carefully-crafted walls did nothing to protect her heart at all. They had crumbled, crushing her heart and leaving her with the pain of his loss and the grief of might have been.

The Dragon Queen knew well the heartbreak Jorah had been through. In the end, he had died for her. He deserved to know the truth. He deserved to know that he was not to blame for their impossible bond. He deserved to know he was more than worthy of the same love he gave.

Yet, Dany could not deny the part of her that wished she could have a life so easy as to allow herself to fall in love with one such as he. Lords and nobles were far less risky to allow the heart to follow, for they would be protected and shielded until the very end...by knights such as Jorah. It was a cruel and coldly logical outlook to possess, Dany knew this. But it was one that had allowed her to protect her heart this far. She had loved, yes, but had never allowed herself to fall in love to the point where her heart would yearn for that significant other over all else. Dany ensured that, since Drogo, there was always something to keep her heart rooted away from falling completely in love with anyone — Dario's arrogance, for example, ensured she felt little to nothing upon their parting. Jon's initial reluctance to bend the knee had kept her heart tethered to the careful suspicion her mind nursed and stopped her falling completely in love. And with what had come to light since, their love had slowly shattered for her.

For Jorah, it had not been so easy. True, his betrayal had certainly gone some way to tarnishing their bond enough for it to swing treacherously close to hatred from Daenerys' side, but the manner in which the knight seemed determined to truly give everything he had for her made it difficult to maintain. The raw absolute of his resolve to support her, despite his thorough understanding that it would not see his love returned in kind, made it truly difficult to prevent her heart warming and binding to his.

It had been easier to simply ignore it, even if it wounded them both silently. It had been soothing to simply revel in their love as a Queen loved her subjects, and a subject loved his Queen, and close her eyes to any other love possible between them.

She had not questioned her resolve in this. Dany could not risk the grief of heartbreak causing her strength to waver for even a moment, not with her destiny in hand.

But now, after that pain had found her regardless and her strength proved resilient enough to not only have remained but to have been fuelled by the desire to do right by the memory of the fallen, should she continue this shielding of her heart? After all, had she not found the strength to fight back against that impossible agony and bring Jorah back to her side?

Not even true heartbreak would end the reign of the Dragon Queen. Daenerys had learnt that this long-held fear of hers was unfounded after all, that her strength was a power she was still underestimating even with how far she had come.

Was it time to take down those shields?

In the silence of her contemplation, Ser Jorah had gotten to his feet.

"I have sworn to shield you from all harm, Khaleesi. Whatever the cost," Jorah spoke, though the voice that delivered the words seemed void of heart. "I am no King in the North. There are no knights and soldiers serving as my shield to lessen the blades directed at me. I have died once in your service, and if it meant saving your life, I would do so again. Even if it means I cannot ever hope to have my affections returned."

With that, the man bowed, mumbled "By your leave, Khaleesi," and made to leave, the pain on his face betraying the mask he tried to keep in place.

"Ser Jorah," Daenerys called him back at the door sternly. Her knight turned to face her, though meeting her eyes seemed to take a great deal of effort. "If you had been King in the North...would you have bent the knee?"

It was a playful question, half intended to relieve the tension settling in the air around them, and half in curiosity.

"Your Grace," Jorah said, "if I had been sitting on the Iron Throne upon your arrival in Westeros, I would have bent the knee to you."

* * *

After the lengthy and arduous war council gathering, the soft warmth of her bed was quite a welcome embrace as night fell. Weary in mind and body, the silver-haired woman quickly found herself falling into the comforting respite of sleep. Its comforts were not to last, however, as a tangle of dreams disturbed her restful bliss.

As many nights before it, this dream brought Daenerys to a grey hall. Ashes and cinders floated and danced in the air around her, the echo of fire charging the air with a strange, purged emptiness. The ruins of a castle stood round her, cold and soulless, a fitting frame to the monstrous chair looming before her. A twisted knot of countless blades, the Iron Throne both beckoned and repulsed her. But, for the first time since these nightmares of ashes began, the throne was not vacant.

Sitting amidst the swords, crimson robes spilling from the steel down to the floor, the Red Woman was draped across the Iron Throne.

"Not all flames belong to dragons, Daenerys," the woman drawled, something of an accusation tinging her words with bitterness. Daenerys scoffed at the ridiculousness of her words.

"Of course they do," she replied, stepping closer to the throne. "Fire belongs to the dragons as water belongs to the sea. The sea _is _water, and dragons _are _fire."

This caused Melisandre's lip to curl at the corners, though whether it was a smile or a grimace Dany couldn't quite tell.

"Even if that were so..._you _are not a dragon. You are a person. Just like everyone else."

Before Daenerys could respond, Melisandre was on her feet, climbing down from the throne to meet her in the cinder-strewn hall. "Like all Targaryens, your mind yearns for more. Your mind _believes _in more. That you are more than human. Many of your ancestors have thrown themselves in flames or even attempted to consume fire to become true dragons. Do you know what the fire did to them?"

Of course she knew. At her insistence, Dany had heard of her father's obsession with wildfire, the false fire of men, from Ser Jorah. She had read tales of her ancestors, of Aerion the Monstrous who drank wildfire in the belief it would turn him into the dragon he thought he truly was.

"Do you know what fire did to me?" Daenerys rebuked, standing her ground. "Nothing. It did not burn me. It destroyed my enemies. It birthed my children. And it returned my knight to my side."

Now, the smile on Melisandre's face faded away to something darker; fury burned in her scarlet eyes, her fair face tense with anger.

"Your knight lives on embers that did not belong to him," she spat, snatching a hand out at Dany's neck. It wasn't until the jingle of metal sounded that Dany realised she had been wearing the ruby choker she found in the snow, the vessel of the ruby that had channeled dragonfire and its magic through life and death.

Almost mournfully, the Red Woman turned away, cradling the dull and cold gemstone in her palm. Her eyes were fixed upon it, though it did not appear that she focused well on it. "The Lord of Light...blessed me with a life longer than any ought to live. To serve my purpose, to bring his light to this world. My life was bound within this stone, and at his calling, I removed it for good. I was to finally rest...the echoes of my life trapped within this stone were to fade away and I could finally _rest_ in his glory.

"But you...you reignited those echoes. You brought dragonfire and light and blazed the remnants of my life away from its death and tore them away from rest. He lives on through _my _life's embers, fuelled by a terrible fire." Despair clinging to her voice and eyes, the Red Woman fixed Daenerys to the spot with a desperate plea. "I cannot move on. I am trapped in this world, my echoes unable to fade. Unseen, unheard...you have shackled me to this darkness, Targaryen."

_A life for a life_, Daenerys thought numbly. _The price has been paid. _

Daenerys finally moved, walking past the Red Woman with her head held high. She strode towards the Iron Throne, standing at its foot.

"I have travelled across this world, and encountered many people. Many cultures...many tales..." Dany said. "I know little of the Lord of Light and his followers. Perhaps you have similar stories of what happens to those who live terrible lives. But I once encountered a movement in Essos where followers believed committing sins in this life would result in punishment in the afterlife. A soul unable to rest, doomed to wander in torture for their crimes."

Step by step, Daenerys ascended the long path up to the jagged and dominating throne. "I heard other tales, from Northmen and smugglers...of a woman believed in a false king and prophecy...who commanded a child to be put to the flame to sate this Lord of Light," Daenerys reached the throne, turning slowly to stand before it and look down at Melisandre from its peak, disgust etched across her features. "Stay in the dark, and endure its terrors. Beg your Lord to save you, for the Queen will not."

As she passed down her damning sentence, Daenerys took her seat upon the throne to the sound of Melisandre's wail of fear, her whole body shaking as the gemstone shattered in her palms. Before her eyes, the beautiful woman began to shrivel, greying an ageing, screams turning to raw gargles, until—

Daenerys awoke calmly, the morning sun warming her face gently even as the screamed yet faded in her mind.

* * *

Stepping out into the brisk cold a few hours later, the courtyard was alive around Daenerys with people moving supplies and loading horses and cart with provisions and weapons. A few soldiers were too wounded to join them, and would remain behind in Winterfell to continue to rest and heal. But many were ready and rested, with some looking almost pleased to finally be making the final move of this long-awaited destiny. The dream they had shared for years was finally within their sight — breaking the chains of a world of tyrants.

The sound of a horse whinnying and huffing loudly caught Dany's attention. The animal was clearly distressed, a noise she had learned to quickly distinguish from her time with the Dothraki. Frowning, she sought out the sound until she was met with an unusual sight.

Jorah, who Daenerys had never seen having trouble with horses in her entire time knowing the man, was currently struggling with his panicking horse. The creature seemed to have absolutely no intention of letting its longtime rider anywhere near him, rearing up and swinging its front hooves dangerously close to the Mormont. Despite his best efforts, the beast refused to cooperate, and eventually the reigns slipped from Jorah's grasp and the horse tore away and out of sight, knocking a number of people over in its escape.

"Whatever did you say to the poor thing?" Daenerys smiled as she approached, causing Jorah to start a little in surprise. His face tinged pink in embarrassment, a sight she caught in spite of the man bowing quickly.

"I...apologies, Your Grace. He hasn't been cooperative with me ever since...ever since the battle."

They both knew what he truly meant — since his resurrection. Dany's eyes followed after the far-gone horse. Did the creature no longer recognise its rider? Her mind fell to Melisandre, of the life energy responsible for bringing Jorah back. Had this confused and panicked the horse?

"We are setting off soon," Daenerys reminded her knight. "I can hardly have you running around Winterfell trying to bring your horse to calm." With a jerk of her head, she beckoned Jorah to follow, and though he looked confused and more than a little embarrassed for his perceived failure, he trekked along after her.

She led him out of the castle grounds up to the hill they had taken a walk to in recent days. Daenerys had to smile as she could only imagine Jorah's expression behind her as he realised what she was doing.

The pair approached Drogon, who was coiled upon the hill and only raised his head from slumber at Dany's approach. In the distance, Rhaegal was soaring in the sky, his strength slowly recovering after the battle as well.

Daenerys easily climbed atop of her dragon, seating herself comfortably and holding on to two of the many protruding back scales. She leaned to the side, and saw her poor knight standing before the dragon, looking more than a little pale. Ah, Dany knew he was quite comfortable around her dragons — he'd practically raised them alongside her. But Jorah had only ridden on dragonback once during their escape from beyond the Wall. It certainly wasn't something he knew well.

"I'm...going to find my horse," he offered as a farewell, turning to leave. Grumbling, Drogon brought his tail whipping around in the snow, coiling in front of Jorah to block his path in a plume of powder snow. The creature knew Daenerys' plans; he always did, silently and without her words.

Certainly pale now, Jorah meekly turned back to face his Queen and Drogon.

"Just hold on tight this time, and don't look down," Daenerys advised, recalling how the man had very nearly fallen off the dragon last time. No doubt this memory was keeping her bear rooted to the ground. She did feel quite sorry for him, but really, unless he planned to walk from here to the Stoney Sept, this was the only other option. From the look in his eye, he was considering the long walk.

"I could just wa—"

"Ser Jorah Mormont, get on the dragon now."

She almost burst out laughing at Jorah's affronted expression, the silent question etched on his face as to whether or not that was truly an order form his Queen. Apparently not willing to risk questioning it out loud, the very reluctant man slowly climbed up and onto Drogon's back, sitting behind Daenerys and mimicking her hold on Drogon's scales.

She turned a little to look over her shoulder at her terrified knight.

"Ready?"

"No."

Unfortunately for Jorah, Drogon was not the most patient of her dragons. With a thunderclap-beat of his great wings, the dragon took to the skies, kicking up plumes and waves of snow beneath him. The wind roared past her ears, almost deafening her, and in a moment they were high in the sky and the castle quickly dropped away far below.

She spotted Rhaegal trailing off to the side of them, following them in the journey to Stony Sept. It would take a number of hours, and she would need to halt along the way to allow Drogon to rest and hunt, but Dany was sure they would reach the small village before the rest of her armies.

Drogon fell into a graceful soar before long, bringing their journey to a smooth path with ease. The silver-haired woman looked behind her again, her balance something of a fine art, though she had no doubt her movements would cause her knight to fret that she would fall. If there was any scope for Jorah to fret for anything right now other than not falling off, that was.

After a few hours of relatively smooth flying, watching Westeros sprawling down below, the air started to become colder. The clouds were darkening, and Dany heard Drogon giving a cursory growl, rumbling deep in his throat. As if on queue, the heavens opened and a deluge of rain quickly soaked rider and dragon alike. The rainfall beat down with an unrelenting fury, heavy and hammering against Drogon's wings. Thunder began to roll above them, and before long, a crack of lightning lit up the sky. Like a blinding whip the bolts forked across the clouds, too close for comfort.

They would have to find shelter until the storm passed, Dany quickly realised; it was not safe to continue their journey like this. Wordlessly, she guided Drogon lower down, the rain getting into her eyes and blurring her vision. It didn't worry her, her full faith placed in her dragon to find them a safe spot to land.

The black-scaled dragon swooped and dove down into the mountains, ones Dany hoped were part of the mountain range west of Stoney Sept. He circled and settled on the side of one mountain, where a large, stony overhang provided enough cover to shelter even Drogon from the rain. Along the cliff-side beneath this overhang was a cave entrance which would serve as better shelter for Daenerys and Jorah.

After a brief argument of growls and screeches with Rhaegal, the green dragon complaining that Drogon had picked a spot where he could not land too, his brother took off across the mountains to find his own shelter from the storm.

Dany slipped down from Drogon's back, feeling her fur coat squelch cold and horrible against her, soaked through from the downpour. She could feel locks of her hair had come loose of her braids and were plastered against the sides of her face and down her neck. A huff to her side alerted her to Jorah having clambered down from the dragon too, looking equally drenched and bedraggled.

"It's much more enjoyable when the weather is pleasant," Dany offered, trying not to laugh at her poor drowned bear.

Jorah took off his gloves, wringing them out and letting water trickle to the stones at his feet.

"Well, don't tell my horse, but that was actually quite something," Jorah conceded with a smirk. "Come, I'll get you a fire built. You don't want to catch a cold before your final war, Khaleesi."

* * *

As night fell, the cave proved to be quite hospitable. Jorah had ventured out to find firewood — the damp of the rain would not prove a problem, given the fire provided by Drogon would burn anything. Quickly, the soggy firewood was transformed into a warm, comforting glow within the cave. Daenerys huddled close to it, her coat, boots, and gloves laid out nearby to dry. She could hear Drogon stomping himself into a comfortable position for the night outside, the rain crashing onto the rocky overhang outside the cave.

Jorah had removed his coat and boots to dry as well, and was sitting at the mouth of the cave to keep watch, his back against the wall. Currently, he was tending to a small cut on his palm where he had caught himself climbing up the mountain for his firewood search earlier, though he seemed to be having trouble tying the makeshift bandage with his teeth and free hand.

After watching him for a little while, Dany got to her feet and padded over to him. Silently, she took the ripped cloth from him and started to wind it around his palm properly.

"...Thank you, Your Grace," Jorah said, his voice low and quiet as though he worried to disturb the slumbering dragon outside.

"You don't need to keep watch, you know," Dany said, eyes fixed on her work. "Drogon will wake up if anything is foolish enough to come too close.'

Jorah knew this, of course, Dany had no doubt. But his pride and his vows kept him at his post. So, once she finished binding his hand, she took hold of it and got to her feet, bringing Jorah up to his feet with her. "You need to rest. A tired knight can't protect his queen now, can he?"

She led him into the cave towards the warming glow of the fire, letting go of his hand to settle back down by the heat and light. Of course, Jorah sat himself down a little distance away from her. From the glow of the firelight, Dany could see the scars mottling the right side of his face, disappearing under his eyepatch. His shirt was drying, but from the collar parting she could just make out the scars across his chest, the glimmer of scales, ones she knew repeated all the way down his torso and around his back.

The thought of each one reverberated in her heart. Each one that had been caused by him shielding her. Each blade he had fallen upon, utterly willing to die for her.

Daenerys was quite sure this moment wasn't the moment in which she realised, but it was the first moment where the thought rang quite clear in her mind: she loved this man. This man who gave everything for her, and expected nothing in return. He didn't ask for her armies, her dragons, her love, her hand, or her heart. All he wanted was for her to be alive and happy.

Dany had always known this pure and true form of love was right at her side. Even with her eyes closed to it, even with her best efforts to ignore it, she had secretly taken comfort for the knowledge of its existence. And gods, it had been a frozen agony when it was ripped away from her.

"Khaleesi? What's wrong?"

Jorah's concerned tones snapped her from her brooding as she realised she had been staring, eyes glossy and unfocused, at him.

Of course she had fallen in love with him. She had built those walls around her heart _after _she had realised this in truth, Dany thought. So that she could close her eyes to it.

"I was," she said simply, and despite the frown on Jorah's face clearly seeking more clarification of her words, Dany offered none. Instead, she got up and walked over to him, sitting herself down next to him and leaning her head against his shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, Jorah's arm wrapped around her to comfortably draw her in and let her nestle comfortably against him.

She would let the shields of her heart fall for just a moment, Dany thought to herself. Just a moment to silently treasure within the storm, before it inevitably lifted and the world returned around them once more.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Thank you again for the lovely reviews. I've had a tough week and seeing your messages really does help. If any of you have Tumblr, do feel free to follow and come chat with me forsakenluciscaelum**

* * *

_**CHAPTER 9 **_

_**-Jorah-**_

Jorah was gently brought out from his sleep by the morning sun spilling in through the cave's gaping maw. He almost started to sit up, before realising and remembering the gentle weight currently nestled in the crook of his arm, face nuzzling into his neck.

Daenerys hated the cold, this he knew. And as the fire had long since guttered out, the winter chill had crept into the cave around them. No doubt his lingering fever had finally served a useful purpose and kept her warm as she slept.

He brought a hand slowly up, and almost cupped her face to wake her. Immediately, Jorah wondered if that would be too bold, and instead, rested his hand on her shoulder to gently shake her.

"Khaleesi...we ought to set of while the weather is in our favour," Jorah spoke softly as the bleary-eyed Queen inhaled deeply and coiled in on herself a little. She pushed against his chest to help herself sit up, and for a moment, looked at him in utter confusion as sleep groggily unwound from her mind.

Once it did, Daenerys offered him a smile.

"I was quite comfortable there, but I can't imagine you were. Apologies," she said, sitting up properly and giving Jorah space to sit up himself. As he did so, he could feel his shoulder had seized up. Discreetly, he rolled it back, though it didn't seem to want to loosen, the bones grinding a little painfully in response.

He was getting far too old to sleep rough on the ground, Jorah thought to himself sullenly. It wasn't until his Queen drew nearer, eyes prying around the collar of his shirt at his shoulder that he thought to look down at his sore limb. Pulling the loose material of his shirt down over his shoulder, the sight of scales beneath nearly caused Jorah to jolt back away from his Queen in fear of the greyscale having returned.

The burns that had scarred over his right shoulder and arm had peeled away even further across his skin, revealing a slew of jagged, sharp coppery scales. He couldn't see how far up they stretched, and lifted one hand to tentatively feel his shoulder and up towards his neck. The rough texture continued up over his throat, thinning away to a few scattered scales over his jaw and over the right side of his face.

He hadn't noticed Daenerys move closer to him until she was near enough to bring her hands up to his face and slowly remove the eye patch covering his scalded right eye. Blinking against the sudden light, the blurring vision swam for a moment and then cleared, settling on the Queen's concerned expression.

"Jorah, it's..."

Jorah's hand moved to inspect his eye, fingers grazing his brow bone, eye socket, and cheek bone in turn. He could feel tiny, sharp spikes running along his cheekbone beneath his lower eyelid, angled up towards his ear and disappearing before his hairline began.

"Damn. My enviable good looks are ruined," Jorah offered dryly, a half-smile tugging at his face. His words softened the worry on Daenerys' features, which was all he wanted. Even if fear had settled and began to take root in his own mind — what in Seven Hells was happening to him?

Despite his increasingly bizarre appearance, the Dragon Queen didn't flinch away. Instead, one hand came up to brush the scales of his exposed collar bone, brow knotting as she did so.

"I had thought the scales were copper," she noted lightly, as if to try and soothe the knight. "But...they are silver beneath..."

Curious, Jorah reached for his discarded sword belt. Pulling one of the smaller daggers from its sheathe, his used the flat of the blade to observe his reflection, angling it to his shoulder and neck.

Indeed, many of the scales that blossomed there had the reddish, copper hue his Queen spoke of, but others shone a bright and brilliant silver as the morning light caught them. Using the collar of his shirt, Jorah rubbed away at one of the copper-coloured scales. After a moment, he let the cloth fall back to reveal another silver scale, and a coppery mark left on his shirt.

_As blood stains steel_, he thought to himself. These scales truly were growing out from his flesh, stained with his blood as they pierced over his skin.

_I am becoming a monster_, he thought to himself numbly. _Ill-suited to serve a Queen. _

* * *

With the morning sun clear in the sky, the storm's rain slowly dried away as they sat around a small fire and a humble meal of foraged fresh honeycomb to break their fast. An uncomfortable silence had settled between the two. For Jorah, his mind was ensnared in concern over what he was becoming — would it jeopardise his Queen's conquest for her throne? Her heart, unique as it was, called to people and united them together in admiration of her as a leader. Would his...unnatural appearance...draw unease and fear towards her? Her dragons were fearsome to be sure, but the people knew what they were and recognised their form from legends of old, eventually settling into awe of them. But for him, his appearance was now warped and unlike any creature from tales of yore. It would bring nothing but fear of the unknown into the suspicious minds of common folk. Of curses and omens.

Jorah chanced a look at Daenerys. She too seemed lost in thought, an air of sorrow holding her otherwise poised form. He knew better than to pry; she would speak if she wished to, and not before then. He only hoped she was not blaming herself for whatever malady was gripping him.

The silence of thoughts remained even as the pair approached Drogon to make the rest of their journey to Stoney Sept. As Daenerys made her way atop the dragon, Jorah paused.

"You should go on ahead, Khaleesi," Jorah said, trying to ignore Drogon's snout huffing and snuffling at him, the creature apparently intrigued by the scales appearing over the man's face. "People put great value in first impressions. I don't think it would be wise for me to make myself known to the town as I am."

The conflict in Daenerys' eyes clearly played upon her tongue as well — no doubt she was more than tempted to proclaim the foolishness of judgement at first sight, but knew that he was, unfortunately, correct in his observation. People were cautious of the unusual, and terrified of the unknown. His unique condition was very much an unknown that would draw fear and worse.

Wordlessly, the Queen descended from where she had been seated atop the obsidian dragon. She shrugged off the maroon silken capelet that was draped over her right shoulder, unfastening it from the silver dragon-head chain that crossed her torso.

"Ser Jorah, I have already given you your orders," Daenerys reminded him, bunching the dark red material in her hands and tearing it to strips. "When I take the Seven Kingdoms—"

She began wrapping the shredded silks around his neck, up and over his jaw and mouth, and diagonally across his face until only his left eye remained uncovered. She replaced his eyepatch, which now served mainly to hold the makeshift mask in place. "—I will need you by my side."

"Silently by your side?" The man asked lightly, his voice muffled by the material swathing and hiding his odd looks. The silver-haired woman gave him a smirk, turning to head back to her scaled steed.

"I pray your counsel always has a voice, Ser Jorah."

* * *

It had taken another half day's flight before they arrived at Stoney Sept. Daenerys had decided that the sight of two dragons soaring overhead was enough excitement for one day, landing a little further afield and making the two of them walk for a short while to arrive in the town properly.

"I have not come here to rule atop a dragon," she had said as they walked. "I want my people to see the truth of me, and not the fear of dragonfire. They will come to learn dragons are not to be feared, but only if I teach them this."

"Do you regret it then?" Jorah dared to broach the subject within her words. "The Tarlys?"

"No," her answer came swift and resolute. "They were traitors. I offered them mercy and they refused it. They played the part of loyalty, Ser Jorah. Claimed to be utterly loyal to their false Queen, the wife of the late Robert Baratheon..."

Daenery's gaze moved to the sept upon the hill looming over them as they travelled. "Tell me, Ser Jorah: what battle happened here?"

Jorah felt his heart beat a little faster. Stoney Sept had been an intrinsic part of Robert Baratheon's rebellion — the townsfolk had helped to hide the man following his one and only defeat on the battlefield.

"The Battle of the Bells, Khaleesi. Robert Baratheon, House Tully, House Arryn, and House Stark fought against the royal army."

"And why was Robert here?"

Jorah took a moment to study Dany's face; a difficult feat with the majority of his face covered. Still, he answered, though he knew _she _knew the answer:

"He was hiding, Your Grace. Nursing wounds from his one and only defeat — The Battle of Ashford."

"And who defeated him?"

"...Houses loyal to House Targaryen; the vanguard of House Tyrell and...House Tarly."

The silver queen nodded solemnly. At this point, they were approaching the gates of the town, with the sept looking somehow less imposing up close than it had as a shadow from afar.

"House Tarly, loyal to House Targaryen — but only when it suited them. Randyll Tarly attacked Robert Baratheon in loyalty to my father...then claimed steadfast loyalty to Robert's wife against House Targaryen when it seemed most profitable to him. There are few things I loathe more than false loyalty, Ser Jorah. Many men use it as a means to polish their pride, but it is a vile habit. True loyalty doesn't change with the winds of war. That man looked me in the eye and had the nerve to play the part of a just and loyal knight, acting as though his refusal to bend the knee was admirable. Knowing he had declared the same steadfast loyalty to my father. He disgusted me, Ser Jorah.

"But I did not come here to place people in chains. No one ever came around to believing in someone who put them in chains. If my mercy would not sway them, mercy they did not deserve in light of their fickle false loyalty, then nothing would. I would not take them as prisoners. But...I confess I ought not have executed them in the manner I chose. Dragonfire is not a painless death. For that, I will carry the burden of my fury. With that, I will learn what it means to be Queen."

* * *

Jorah expected a chilly reception from the town. But, whether it was that word had reached them of the Dragon Queen's part in keeping the Night King at bay, or simply memories as short as Randyll's loyalties, the townsfolk did not seem angered by the presence of the Targaryen. It was not a warm welcome by any means, but it wasn't unpleasant either.

House Tully had received word from Winterfell of Daenerys' arrival, and she and Jorah were given rooms within the stonework sept atop the hill. A nervous-looking Tully lord had briefly asked about the safety of the dragons close by the town. He received reassurances for his people, and a pouch of gold in advance of any "missing sheep or goats". The gold given would have been enough for any farmer to buy several flocks more than Drogon and Rhaegal could hope to eat in a month, and was apparently a satisfactory advance repayment of anything the dragons should take.

It was a few more days before the fragments of Stark forces and Unsullied arrived, along with Tyrion. Not long after, a raven arrived from Harrenhal signed by Jon Snow to give word of his arrival there with the Dothraki and other Stark forces.

"I take it you're not a natural at dragonflight then?" Tyrion drawled, nodding at Jorah's covered face. The man had been in the Sept no longer than an hour and Jorah already found himself wishing the man had been stationed at Dragonstone.

Worryingly, they had heard nothing of their forces in Dragonstone. It would take longer for them to arrive, Jorah had assured Daenerys, but it did little to appease the worry in her eyes. Missandei had been within the forces sent across the sea, as she had noted the need for Dany to have someone close to her that she could trust over with her split forces. It was a smart move: the Dothraki at Harrenhal were unwaveringly loyal to their Khaleesi, but the same could not be said of the remaining Iron Born and Varys, who sailed to Dragonstone too. Missandei being among their number was a wise move.

"One more day, Jorah," Daenerys had agreed. "One more day and then I will have to take Drogon to Dragonstone. I must know she-that they are safe."

Jorah prayed that the raven came soon to herald a safe landing in Dragonstone, not only for his concern for Missandei, who had become as close a friend as any to him over the years, but for worry of his Queen. Her mercy was great, but her temper and patience was decidedly short. Despite the risks of flying oversea that she herself had pointed out, if it was to defend her people, Jorah knew all too well that she would risk herself to take that flight.

The troubling thought stayed with the knight as he left Stoney Sept with his companion.

"Are you going to tell me why you've swaddled your face, or am I going to be left at the mercy of my vivid imagination indefinitely?" Tyrion's voice sounded yet again as the pair set off along the road from Stoney Sept. The two had been ordered by the Queen to ensure the passage to the tunnels remained open — if they received word from Dragonstone, they would head through the tunnels as soon as possible. If it turned out that Cersei had learned of the tunnels and had collapsed them, they would need to orchestrate their next move to blockade all supplies. Jorah knew Dany would rather not risk harming the people of King's Landing with such a tactic; if the tunnels were crumbled in, he would dig them out if he had to. Depleting Cersei's forces from the inside was a far more favourable move for the people.

He chose to ignore the Lannister at his side, walking along the riverside towards the cliff face Varys had spoken of. It would be too tempting to throw the man into the waters rushing alongside them if he responded and gave Tyrion the means to keep conversing with him.

Jorah was then swiftly reminded that his responses, or lack thereof, had never stopped Tyrion's gums from flapping in the past.

"You know, Mormont...I'm rather glad you didn't die."

"...I _did _die."

"I'm rather glad you didn't die _permanently_."

This earned a raised eyebrow from the knight, as best he could anyway, and he turned to look at the Queen's Hand. The pair hardly made much effort to hide their distaste of one another — Tyrion talked far too much for Jorah's liking, and Jorah talked far too little for Tyrion's. But the pair held an unspoken mutual respect for the other's talents. Unspoken, that is, until this sudden admittance from Tyrion.

"Why's that? Worried you'd have to learn to wield a greatsword in my absence?"

"It's a personal rule of mine not to pick up a blade bigger than my entire self. But no — I was worried I would not be able to appeal to the Queen's kinder heart as you do."

They continued walking over the increasingly-rugged terrain, the sun setting rapidly over the hills around them. Winter's war may be over, but the season had not yet relinquished its grip. The nights still drew in quickly.

"I merely offer our Queen other roads she may not have realised were open to her."

"You sell yourself short, Mormont. I suppose I should be grateful. Had you not, I have no doubt you would be wearing this pin now."

Jorah turned to offer Tyrion a hand up a particularly steep incline in the road where rubble from the surrounding cliff-face had collapsed into the road.

"I am best suited as the hand of the Queen that wields her sword. You were always better suited to being the other Hand."

"We have a saying about what that other Hand does, but I've a terrible feeling you'd have me dine on my teeth if I told you it."

Jorah quickly pulled his offered hand back in, letting Tyrion stumble and fall on the rocks for the moment. He knew damn well what the nobles of King's Landing crudely said of the Hand's duty. It was not an image he wanted near his Queen at all.

Tyrion, however, tried to grab at whatever he could to halt his fall with Jorah's hand no longer there. His hand coiled around the makeshift scarf-end hanging at Jorah's shoulder, and suddenly it was yanked down from him, unravelling from his face and knocking him down to his knees painfully. Jorah felt shards of stone underfoot cutting his trousers and burying in his knees. Gods, would he make it through _any_ simple journey without wounds?

He could not gather the silken cloth in time to re-hide his face before Tyrion saw it. Irritated, Jorah sighed and stuffed the makeshift mask into his pocket to re-mask his face before they returned to the town, at least. In truth, he was glad to get this out of the way now if it meant being able to breathe properly without the uncomfortable damp press of cloth against his face.

"What—Mormont, where's your fur?"

Jorah frowned, even though he could feel himself walking in to some sort of verbal trap.

"Fur?"

"Well, if you were going to be a were-_anything_, I would have assumed a werebear to be far more fitting. You make a terrible weredragon, look at you."

Had Tyrion not already been lying on his back, Jorah might very well have sent him to the ground for that irritating comment. He made do with a scowl, getting to his feet and pretending he didn't hear the guttural growl rumble in his throat without intention.

"There's no such thing as werebears. Or weredragons. Of which I am neither. Please...the Queen and Tarly know of this...condition. I would prefer it to be kept that way, but since you have seen, I would ask for your secrecy at least."

The shifting of rocks told Jorah that Tyrion had gotten up and was following behind him along the road once more.

"If it's any consolation," the Lannister said, "I don't think even I could find the words to describe to anyone what has happened to you."


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Apologies if I'm updating _too _much and doing everyone's head in. I'm just very, very motivated to write this right now. Please forgive me for the overload, and also for my likely-shambolic depiction of Jon Snow in this chapter; I find him the most difficult to portray! But feedback and reviews really do fuel me, so please do hit that review button and let me know what you're loving/not loving about this fic.**

**Also, I resisted the temptation to write a crack-chapter from Drogon's POV and his confusion over Jorah. "BEAR-DAD SMELLS LIKE FIRE BUT HE IS SMOL. AND PUNY. AND WINGLESS. BUT HE HAS SCALES NOW. I AM CONFUSE. I DO AN INVESTIGATE. I DO A SNIFF? HM. NOPE STILL CONFUSE. AND BEAR-DAD LOOKS AFRAID."**

* * *

_**CHAPTER 10**_

_**-Daenerys-**_

With Jorah and Tyrion heading to investigate the tunnel entryway by the cliffside, Daenerys had assumed she would be alone for some time within Stoney Sept. Of course, she would not sit on her laurels waiting for the pieces to move into place. Every small move could be a potent one, every stone laid could be the difference between a castle's rise and fall. To that end, the Dragon Queen made her way out of the Sept and into the town. She ignored the curious looks and concerned faces, and went about her business precisely as anyone else would — the Targaryen stopped by the baker to purchase a sweetbread, and wandered by the blacksmith's to admire the metalwork and praise him on his skill.

She headed to the seamstress to request a new cape against the cold, having used her other to help Jorah feel more comfortable in entering the town at all. She stopped by the small library and requested to read about the town's history, taking a book with gratitude and then setting off for the bustling town square.

At each stop Dany made, she was sure to smile. She introduced herself, asked for names, praised their crafts, and thanked them for their services. The Queen noted, but did not react to, the caution each person greeted her with, and the small warmth that blossomed during their interactions before she moved on. These people were, after all, the people she had come to liberate from the tyrants of their throne. Dany knew well that they had been given no reason to believe she was any different from the Usurpers who had used this town and its people before, and left them to struggle alone.

She did not show them spite for this. Only a fool would not expect more of the same after all. But Dany did not let it dishearten her either. This was not the first land she had encountered distrust in after all, and she knew how to change fear of the unknown into hope for the future of their land — the very thing Daenerys had once thought as a weakness she now wielded with the mastery of an artist.

Her gentle heart. Offered to the people, unshielded and in nothing but truth. Dany would take the risk of bearing her heart to the people in exchange for them taking the risk in trusting a queen one last time.

But it would not happen overnight. Scars ran deep in the town, and across Westeros as a whole; Dany could feel it in her blood. It would take years to truly show them what a good and just ruler was, to build that unity in trust. Until then, she would bear the brunt of their caution-turned-cold.

Finding a spot on a stone wall to sit on, Daenerys got comfortable and opened her book on her lap. Unwrapping the sweetbread, the Targaryen princess began to quietly chew her food and read the tome outlining some of the town's past. She was acutely aware of people crossing away from her, or taking a wide arc to walk by her, but she did not react. Any eyes she did catch received her smile, and any whispers were ignored.

In truth, Daenerys could not focus on the words in the book. Her eyes had fallen on the same point on the page multiple times, and she could not get past it. Her mind was elsewhere; in fire and pain, the Red Woman's torment and Jorah's own strife. Had her resurrection of the man been so selfish? She could feel him becoming more and more unsure of himself, more and more fearful of what was happening to him. Dany had no doubt that the knight was worried his very existence would become a problem for her, and she was worried for what this would do to her bear.

_My dragons...poor Rheago...and now Jorah. Does all life near me become fire and blood? _She wondered to herself solemnly.

"Your Grace..."

Daenerys' whole body jolted in shock, nearly upsetting the book from her lap as a familiar Northern tone reached her ears. Wide-eyed, Dany looked up in surprise to see Jon Snow approaching her, swathed in black furs and looking as though he hadn't stopped riding for days. Exhaustion clung to him, though he managed a tired smile for her.

She closed her book and got to her feet, approaching him and stopping at arm's length of him. Nothing of her wanted to embrace him as she had in the past, she found, the bond between them having corroded for the poison of his recent revelation to her. For the lack of words they had exchanged since, they had created nothing but a festering wound in the love that had once existed between them.

_Let it die, _Dany found herself thinking. Once, she had thought love quite complicated and unclear, when in truth, she had simply shut her eyes. Now they were open and she saw everything so clearly; she had thought she had at the very least cared for Daario Naharis, a man who loved her. Not only did she feel nothing to lose him, she had chosen to leave him. She had thought she loved Jon Snow, a man who loved her too. But not only had the revelation of his claim to the throne wounded their love, she had felt no great urge to try and save what they had between them. She had thought she had cared greatly for Jorah Mormont, a man she knew loved her.

She had expected to feel something should the day come when he died in her service, but she had not expected to feel the raw determination to defy nature itself and return him to her side.

Dany idly wondered why such feelings as the truth of love would only become quite so apparent on the final page. Another echo of the world's cruelty, she assumed.

The Queen caught herself in her reverie and offered Jon a civil smile at least, despite her shock at his unexpected arrival.

"Was Harrenhal not welcoming?" She asked.

"Abandoned, Your Grace. Our armies have settled in fine, but I have heard nothing from Dragonstone. You said in your last raven you hadn't either," Jon explained. "Someone needs to find out what's happened so...I'm here."

It dawned on Dany then why Jon had come to her, and not simply headed for the coast.

"You wish to take Rhaegal. Across the sea," she half-accused him. The dragon was recovered after the battle in the North, but between the disadvantages of open sea and Jon's own untrained ability in handling a dragon, the idea of him setting off with her dragon in tow drew her anger.

Coupled, of course, with the sense that he wished to play the hero. The celebrations after the war still rang in Dany's ears.

_He comes back and keeps fighting, _they had lauded him, knowing nothing of her own fights across the waters, of her fighting her way to Westeros to save it.

_Here, north of the Wall, and then back here again. He keeps fighting. He keeps fighting, _they had praised of him, though had she not fought the very same path as he?

_He climbed on a fucking dragon and fought. What kind of person climbs on a fucking dragon? A madman or a king, _they had celebrated him, despite their supposed Queen sitting within earshot, having brought said dragons back to the world.

Was it pitiful jealousy, or righteous anger that brought those words back into her mind?

Jon was looking back at her, no doubt seeing the fury in her eyes as confusion pulled across his own.

"I know it's risky, but—"

"They are my people. You can barely stay seated on a dragon, let alone navigate over open waters on one," Dany cut him off, perhaps a little more venomously than intended. "You will hold Stoney Sept in my absence."

She began to walk away, secretly knowing she had been waiting for an opportunity to leave and seek her friends and family risking their lives to reach the island. Dany stormed away toward the Sept, intending to get ready for her journey. Before long, Jon had caught up and was standing before her, halting her path up the empty hill towards the Sept.

"Why are you doing this? You said it yourself the risk is great — we cannot afford to lose you."

"And what good is a _Queen_ who will not risk her life to defend the people she already leads? Too many kings and queens of late have neglected the most important title they have stolen: _Protector of the Realm_. I intend to protect it, and everyone within it."

Her fiery response was met with silence between the pair. Daenerys was quite sure that, in that moment, she heard their love breathe its last.

Jon sighed, a billow of silvery cold clouds huffing in front of his face as he looked away.

"You're still worried. About my claim. You think every action I take to help people will knock you down in their eyes."

"It _will_. It already _has_."

"It _won't!_" For the first time, Daenerys heard a thread of impatience weave into Jon's tone. "I don't know how much clearer I can make it, but I really, _really _do not care about that bloody chair. Gods, sometimes I think I'm the only person in this world that doesn't! I just...I just..."

She could see the frustration getting the better of him as he shifted from one foot to the other. Despite her paranoia growing, a paranoia she could _see _and _recognise_ within herself, Dany felt Jon was being honest in this outburst. "I just don't want people to die, is that so strange? Can I not just...not want people to die without wanting to be their leader? Bloody hell, I didn't even want to be King in the North. I just needed everyone to stop bickering for five minutes and look at the icy hell coming down on us."

Dany almost laughed; when he put it that way, it really was quite ridiculous. His frustration at the situation was quite...well-placed, in truth. How ironic, that the man with the most claim in the world to that _bloody chair _would be the last person in the world who would be happy to sit in it.

"I know," Dany admitted, her voice softening somewhat. She supposed, in a way, she did feel sorry for Jon. All he really wanted was to protect people. Nothing more, and why should more be asked of him? Was his dream and duty not enough?

Jon stopped, nodded, and looked suddenly aware of his own outburst. Dany was quite sure it had been bottled up for some time, and raised both eyebrows at him and offered a small smile.

"I just need you to trust me, Dany," he admitted, exhaustion in his voice. "I'm fighting for you 'cause I believe in you and your vision. The world you want to make will have a line of kings and queens chosen for their hearts and minds, not their blood or some rubbish about birthright. They'll be chosen because they're the best person for the job, starting with you. I know you're worried, and the way things are now, yeah, people would point at me for it. But it's not the first time this has happened, you know. Aegon the Fifth — he wasn't _meant _to be in line, was he? His older brother Aemon, had the better claim. You know what he did?"

Dany nodded a little, wondering why this hadn't occurred to her properly. Jon continued regardless: "He buggered off to the Wall! To stop people telling him he _should_ be king just 'cause he was next in line. And he did it because he _knew_ that him being next in line didn't make him a good ruler. His little brother had a better knack for that, and Aemon was better at other stuff, so off he went to the Wall. And that was that. And that's how it should be — the right people in the right jobs. So, if it makes you feel any better...if need be, I'll go back to the Wall. That's my place, where I do well; protecting people. If people are gonna look to me, then I'll be looking at you. And anyway, if Northmen can come around to the idea of a Targaryen Queen, the rest of the bloody world will be no problem."

His outburst seemed to tire them both, and for a second, they were locked in the moment. Jon himself seemed to become flustered at his own outburst, and looked away first.

"...Thank you, Jon Snow," Daenerys said, her words honest and sincere in spite of the smirk on her face at his awkwardness now. "As your Queen, I command you to hold the Sept until I return."

"...Yes, Your Grace..."

* * *

Taking to the skies was one of Dany's favourite sensations. The powerful beat of Drogon's wings either side of her, the lurch of leaving the ground behind, the rush of air that would almost rob her lungs, the static excitement of simply being away from the chaos below.

The great midnight-scaled dragon soared over Westeros, heading to the coastline due north-west. Before long the land crawled away to a blue-grey blanket of ocean beneath her, and Dany felt suddenly very vulnerable.

_Nothing will bring Drogon to ground,_ she assured herself. _Nothing._

Together, they scoured the waters for any sign of their ships. No wreckage came to view, no sign of struggle, so they pressed on towards Dragonstone—

—as a steel bolt screamed past Daenerys. Drogon roared in anger, swooping and angling sharply, avoiding the flurry of Scorpion bolts sent to him, some bouncing off his impossibly-strong scale, other arching over and around him.

Clinging to her dragon and trying to flatten herself again him as protection from the onslaught, Dany looked down to see the telltale vessels of the Iron Fleet crawling across the waters near Dragonstone. Another moment's pause, and then another volley was set to the skies, sending Drogon lurching this way and that. Many of the bolts came perilously close to Dany and she realised, to her horror, they were not aiming at her dragon.

_**I'm** their target._

Smaller she may be, and yet, she was the only thing they could really hope to harm. But until now, those Scorpions had been pinned on her dragons. On whose say had they changed their target?

_Someone who knows Scorpions cannot pierce dragonscale. Someone who heard me say so to Clegane._

_Someone who has betrayed me._

Struggling to swoop away from the onslaught of bolts, Dany held on as best she could as Drogon wove between them to protect his rider. But then, a terrible tearing sound filled the air, accompanied by a howl of pain and blood spraying Dany's face. Her heart crashed into her stomach as she scoured Drogon for whatever awful wound had been inflicted upon him. He was struggling to stay airborne, his wings beating faster, blood trailing as he did so; a bolt had torn through his wing's membrane. Writhing and still trying to avoid the assault, one twisting pull loosened Dany's grip on him and…

...she was falling. Arms outstretched, trying desperately to claw at something, _anything_, only for _everything _to be falling rapidly out of her reach. Dany barely had time to come to terms with that fact she had fallen from Drogon before the cold, cruel _slam _of water struck her back.

Suddenly, the world was a dark, frozen, silent void around her. The taste of metal burst in her mouth, crimson floating out in a trickling path above her from between her lips, the only thing telling her which way was up. Every muscle in her body seized, her lungs demanded her to heave in a breath that wasn't there, and the frantic urge to _get away _nearly consumed her.

By some grace of whatever gods had not yet abandoned Westeros, Daenerys managed to remain somewhat calm. There was something strangely comforting about the water around her, a similar solitude as she found in the skies. Through the wavering veil of water, she could make out the silhouette of Drogon, his crippled half-flight thankfully keeping him above water. She watched, feeling oddly serene, as his shadow moved away towards Dragonstone, _yes, **go,** go, find safety go…_

And then, the moment had passed. Serenity gave away to the flames of her fury, enough to chase away the freezing waters at her skin.

_Someone has betrayed me._

Slowly regaining control of her limbs, the silver haired woman removed her heavy coat that threatened to drag her under, letting the black leather and silver chain sink to the depths. She swan to the surface, breaking the surface with as little sound as possible, reigning in her instinctive need to gasp for air. She could still see the Iron Fleet, though they were some distance away and could not possibly have spotted her on the water.

Dragonstone was within sight. Her escape, her means to survive…

...and the captain of Cersei's fleet would live only to regret this, Dany swore to herself.

.

* * *

The sight of the wounded Drogon had already brought parts of her army and Missandei to the water's edge in search of their Queen. Freezing and soaking, she emerged from the seas with far less grace than she would from fire — the water was certainly cruel to her. With words of relief and shock, Missandei ran out into the shallows to greet her, wrapping her in warm furs and bringing her to the shore.

The drive of survival burned away as Dany's body began to succumb to the cold, violently shivering and shaking as she hugged the furs closer. Her teeth chattered painfully as Missandei walked her to the castle, sitting her by a blissfully roaring fire. Immediately, Dany put her hands out to its warmth, a little too close as the flame licked at her hands and wrists. As always, she remained unburnt.

Once warmth chased away the blue in her lips, Daenerys heard from Missandei that they had indeed sent ravens, and she seemed surprised that they had not arrived.

"Who sent word?" Daenerys asked, violet eyes fixed upon the flames.

"It was...Varys, Your Grace."

"Would you be as so kind...as to bring him to me, please?"

Her voice was void of emotion, anger or otherwise, as Missandei bowed and exited the room. Alone with her thoughts, Daenerys began to wonder if it was plausible that the Spider had indeed worked against her. The eunuch seemed to have worked very hard to bring her to the throne; and yet, Dany recalled a time in which he heard whispers from Jorah, whispers that led to Varys' hand in sending assassins to her.

Daenerys had no doubt that the man's loyalties could change. But for what motive? Surely not to save his own skin — he had, after all, began to move to aid her while still in Cersei's court.

"Your Grace…?" Varys' silken tones were perfectly nuanced with innocent confusion. Like a mummer reading a script, perfect yet hollow.

"What happened to your ravens, Lord Varys?"

A few heartbeats passed, and Dany had no doubt that the man was weighing up the use in lying to her. If he wanted to, the moment had surely long gone now.

"...Nothing. They flew away with my messages."

"But not to Stoney Sept."

"No, Your Grace. There was no one there who didn't already know what was written."

_He knows. He knows and he has told the world...that Aegon Targaryen is due his throne._

Finally, her eyes raised from the fire to fix the Spider on the spot. Varys did not cower from her gaze. He always was resolute in his decisions; Dany supposed he had to have some redeeming factor.

"You wanted me to fly here. You knew the Iron Fleet would await me."

"Oh yes," Varys responded, brow raised as though this were a useless observation on her behalf. "They would not strike your ships with me aboard. But they heard tale of the unlucky nature of Scorpions against dragons. I told them to make sure you were dead, of course. I imagine they are still out looking for where you fell."

His betrayal, so raw and clear, was laid bare for her stomach to sicken at. Varys was doing little to hide the fact. Was he so certain of his escape in this?

"You risked a lot to have me reach Westeros," Dany countered, her voice as hollowly-civil as Varys' own.

"I did. And imagine my _disappointment _to see you were not as the stories said," Varys lamented, looking every inch the grieving soul. "I thought it quite something to hear of a gentle-hearted Targaryen queen. So I worked hard for the right ruler for the realm to arrive, yes. The ruler we deserve.

"But then, I saw those little flashes of your forefathers seeping in. The desire to see you enemies burn. Executing those poor Tarly men. It is something of a cruelty of the world, Your Grace; Targaryens make for the most wonderful rulers, as they have an uncanny ability to unify even the most stubborn people. Look at you, with your Khalasar, and Jon Snow with the Wildlings. Such a wonderful talent, but gods...it is ruined by your family's fatal flaw..."

Varys moved forward then, standing by the fire and looking down his nose at it with more than a hint of disgust. "_Fire and blood…_.everything a Targaryen touches comes together, only to be obliterated by their obsession with fire and blood. I had hoped you were different, but it was not to be. This destructive fault wounds the realm, and I simply cannot have that. But, I must thank you all the same, Your Grace. For you presented me with the answer."

Dany did not move, though her eyes followed the Spider's every movements.

"Jon Snow is your answer?" She asked, almost bitterly. Varys turned from the flames and nodded.

"A Targaryen without fires to command fear in his people. A Targaryen without any concept of pride in the _blood of the dragon_. A Targaryen who does not see that blood as more important than anything — someone who puts the realm first before family preservation. The man has all the traits of a Targaryen this realm needs, and none of their dark obsessions with fire and blood. He doesn't desire the throne to gild his family name in history books or gain glory. He simply wants to protect the realm, and has unified this realm's people for that task. He's the perfect candidate."

His matter-of-fact demeanour boiled Daenerys' blood, and for all the world, she wanted to have the Unsullied march in here and drag this traitor before Drogon's fury.

But, although the flames of anger remained in her gaze, Daenerys _smiled_. For Varys had not realised, for all his knowledge and whispers, the fatal flaw in his desire. The fatal flaw in his betrayal. The fatal flaw in _Jon Snow_.

"Jon Snow has no _desire_ to rule. He bent the knee so fast partly to escape his crown — he is a leader, but he is no ruler. Yes, perhaps that would make him the least-greedy monarch Westeros has ever seen, but it would also make him a poor one. He would never be able to make the decision to forsake the few to save the many, for he would desire to save them all even if it were impossible. He would be swayed by the whispers and guidance of his advisors...he would rely on them entirely to fill the void in his knowledge of ruling. Of course...that would indeed be a perfect king for you, wouldn't it, Varys?" Daenerys asked coldly. "A puppet king on the Spider's strings. Loved by the people, and dancing to your demands. You would rule from the shadows as you always have."

"Whatever brings peace to the realm, Your Grace," Varys replied silkily. "You have shown me you would not."

And there, the silent challenge remained. Oh, she wanted to execute this traitor, this Spider that would have seen her dead. But to put him to death would be to prove him right, would it not? He would be smiling into the flames, burning her with a brand of a tyrant. She would not let this man win in death.

Daenerys walked towards Varys, standing next to him to observe the fire. There, her rage burned, her vengeance, her fury. She could unleash it all upon him...he would die screaming.

But he would be right.

"This is a rare moment for you, Varys," Daenerys pointed out cooly, turning to face him. "You have no king or queen to hide behind. You've forsaken one for another, but you don't have you other in place yet. You're vulnerable."

"I am at your mercy, I fear," Varys spoke dryly, as though he did not fear death. Almost as if he expected it.

"If you were still loyal to me, and I were faced with such a traitor...what would you advise me to do?"

"I daresay whatever I advised would be ignored in favour of fire, Your Grace. Your father was much the same."

Amethyst eyes darted to the side to wordlessly beckon Grey Worm in. The man strode forward, standing behind Varys. There would be no chains for this man. There would never been chains for those who betrayed her.

_The sentence is mine, _Dany thought to herself. _Mine to live with. Mine to carry. Mine to learn from._

"You wish to serve the realm. So be it," Dany turned to Grey Worm. "Please escort this traitor to Ser Davos and the boats," She turned back to a stunned-looking Varys. Ah, but seeing that mask finally shatter brought a smirk to the Dragon Queen's face. "He's going to take the black."


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Sorry if anyone got a double alert for this one. The site was freaking out when I tried to upload it the first time. This is attempt number 2!**

* * *

_**CHAPTER 11**_

_**-Jorah- **_

As the sun had long since set, seeing the markings on the cliff face provided a horrible task on its own, let alone climbing it in the gloom of the evening. Still, with only a few bumps and bruises, the two men made it up the precarious climb and towards the half-buried entry way to the tunnels.

The tunnel entrance was little more than a cave, and without Tyrion's memory to guide them, finding the tiny crawl space to get into the tunnels proper would have been next to impossible. Eventually, the space widened out enough for Jorah to stand up, and they followed the path along a little ways to ensure it hadn't been closed off. Jorah wondered just how deep into the Red Keep these pathways went; if talks with the Golden Company failed, would they be able to remove Cersei from the throne directly using these hidden tunnels? It was far riskier and far more difficult a task, but certainly a route to consider.

"Does he bother you, Mormont?" Tyrion's half-hushed voice coiled through the corridor, despite Jorah hoping that Varys' warning of the thin walls would silence him. He supposed they were still leagues away from being under the Red Keep though.

"Who?"

"Jon Snow. Or, should I say, does his familiarity with our Queen bother you..."

"No," Jorah inwardly cursed himself as soon as he had opened his mouth though. It had been too gruff, too sharp, and too quick.

"Ah," the Lannister replied knowingly, the error of his quick response not lost on him at all. "The answer of a man who is most certainly bothered by someone."

Jorah scowled down at his companion, hoping his marred face would scare the other into silence. Of course, it did no such thing.

"Why should it matter?"

His words seemed to throw the Hand off more than his expression, as the man seemed to take a moment to wrestle with an unseen conundrum before he could speak. Jorah quickly realised what that problem was: "You know. About Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark."

Jorah's accusation startled Tyrion, and the other had the gall to look acutely offended that Jorah knew this.

"You know, Ned Stark managed to keep this secret from even his own wife for twenty-odd years. Now it seems half of Westeros knows."

The pair turned along a particularly sharp bend in the tunnels, Jorah's hand resting on his sword in caution of anything ahead.

"Who else knows?"

"Other than you and I? Sansa knows, as does Varys. Varys knowing anything could quickly equate to half of Westeros knowing, if he sees fit..."

"And does he?"

This brought silence from Tyrion; a red flag if ever Jorah saw one. He turned away from their path, fixing the Hand with a worried look. "Tyrion. What of Varys?"

The smaller man shook his head, his face contorted with concern.

"I do not know. I had thought his loyalty to our Queen to be quite strong. But ever since the Tarlys...ever since he witnessed those dragons of hers in their full might...it's as if the dream has shattered for him. I'm concerned that he is starting to forge new paths."

"Do you agree?" Jorah's hand did not move from his sword. He watched Tyrion's eyes dart from this to Jorah's eyes, insult etched in his face.

"I believe Jon Snow could be a good choice for the throne," he confessed. "People grow to admire him, and he can unite even the most unlikely of groups under one cause. Much like our Queen does. But before you run me through with that blade, Mormont, let me finish: I think Jon Snow would be a fine ruler. But I believe Daenerys Targaryen to be a once-in-lifetime ruler. Jon Snow would lead well, but he would not change the world. I believe Daenerys could."

Jorah's hand relaxed from his sword, though he didn't unpin Tyrion from his scrutinising gaze. At least the man was honest.

"I know she will."

At this, Tyrion shifted, squirming in discomfort. Something was playing on his mind, and he chose to voice it:

"She could. But our Queen must realise that her dragons could very easily fall from symbols of wonder to icons of fear. She has started to use them as weapons, I fear, and I dread the day when she relishes in this. I dread the day I may look in her eyes and see Aerys staring back at me. Jorah, her path could—"

Before Tyrion could finish his sentence, a burst of sudden pain exploded across the back of Jorah's head, a force hitting him hard enough to send him sprawling forward and face-first into the ground, knocking Tyrion down too.

Stars bursting in his vision, the knight rolled on his back and tried to get unsteadily to his feet, only to have three golden-armoured men ensure his arms and neck. He struggled and writhed, but the choke-hold across his throat only tightened. His lungs began to ache, then scream for air, air he could not draw in but for silently gagging and—

Jorah's vision blurred, swimming in grey, before he was pulled below its depths into the abyss...

* * *

...an abyss which lifted abruptly to the most awful sensation that Jorah knew only too well; peeling skin ripping his forearm. In an instant, every muscle in his body tensed, his arms lurched and found themselves bound at his sides. Looking down as best he could, the knight's throat slammed painfully into a cold metal keeping him bound to the uncomfortable slab he was lying upon.

"Did I wake you? Forgive me," came a voice that seemed concerned with a great many things before forgiveness. "I was simply far too curious about this affliction of yours. I wanted to see if it was growing beneath your skin."

A gaunt, older man appeared into Jorah's view, looking down on him with an air of mild irritation that he had been interrupted. Grey hair was pushed back from his thinning face, and he was all but drowning under a heavy but plain black robe. But Jorah's eyes quickly fell onto the pin at his collar — the symbol that marked this man as the Hand. Memories return to Jorah then, of the weasel scurrying along after the false queen at the Dragonpit, one who was beyond curious at the wight they had brought in an attempt to plea to Cersei's humanity. Qyburn, Jorah recalled the name bitterly. He had heard the name a few times before, with reference to a twisted former-maester.

With a small hum to himself, the Hand looked back down to Jorah's arm. Jorah couldn't see, but he could feel the blood seeping and drying over his skin where the man had cut away. He could also see the glitter of intrigue sparking in Qyburn's eyes, and the Hand bent to examine Jorah's arm.

"Fascinating...these scales of your are _healing _over the wounds...your body no longer produces skin, but _scales_ to heal wounds."

Qyburn seemed quite within his own mind for a while after that, leaving Jorah to endure a number of other pains and hisses of discomfort. He took the time to look around the room in spite of his enduring this, trying to find anything that could help him formulate an escape. Whatever had happened to Tyrion, he was not in the same room as Jorah as far as he could tell, but he also wasn't the room's only occupant.

The shelves around him were lined in all manner of horrors great and small — Jorah could see the charred remains of the wight hand preserved in some strange fluid. Along from this, jars of various body parts, animal and, to Jorah's disgust, human. It was clear that his man would indeed take an interest in Jorah's unique state, but who had whispered in enemy ears to alert them of Jorah and Tyrion's presence in the tunnels?

Jorah continued to try his restricted search of his surroundings. In the corner of the room, a larger glass cannister of greenish-yellow liquid stood like some macabre ornament. Within the murky glass, Jorah could just make out the silhouette of a woman, legs mangled, arms twisted…

"A harpy," Qyburn offered helpfully, having spotted his visual exploration of the room. "Or, she was meant to be. Sadly, though I had some success coaxing a scorpion's tail to form, the subject died during the second stage — hollowing her bones proved to be a most delicate procedure. A lesson learnt."

Jorah's heart seemed intent on breaking through his ribcage, and for the life of him he could not look away from the poor creature, preserved and paraded like a trophy. _Human experimentation_, he recalled the charges against Maester Qyburn and the lumbering giant that had stood by Cersei in the Dragonpit. Something of that man had unnerved Jorah at the time, but it was something instinctual and without obvious reason beyond his intimidating stature. Had he been one of Qyburn's creations?

The knight was dragged from his sickening remembrance by an agonising pull and tear from his arm. The shock more than anything coaxed a yell of pain from Jorah, and he saw Qyburn straightening up, scalpel and a single scale in hand. An unintended growl rippled in Jorah's throat, bringing Qyburn's attention snapping from the scale to stare in shock at Jorah.

"I wonder...has your throat been damaged recently, Ser? Could it be that the inside structure has healed in a different form too...?" The questions trailed off, and were not directed at Jorah. He was quite sure of this, as the ex-maester leered in too close with that scalpel of his near Jorah's neck. "Oh, don't worry...my curiosity will not seal your death. No no, I never waste an opportunity, Ser. Hence why you have been spared the discomfort of the dungeons." Qyburn offered absently, though the blade still hovered nearby, scraping up the scales of his throat and across his face. "..._dragonscale_...on a man. I _knew _firewyrms and wyverns were not the basis..."

The mention of firewyrms brought a far kinder memory to Jorah's mind. During the long march to Meereen, his Queen had told them tales of Valryia, of stories her brother had passed on to her of wyverns and firewyrms. The latter had been akin to dragons, serpentine and fire-breathing, but lacked wings. Instead, they would tunnel through the ground and could erupt underfoot at a moment's notice. On the other side, wyverns possessed wings like a dragon, but lacked the ability to breathe fire as dragons and firewyrms did. Unlike dragons, Daenerys had told them, firewyrms and wyverns had no bonds with men, not even Targaryens. There were impossible to approach, foul-tempered, and solitary creatures.

"The basis of what?" Perhaps if he could keep this man talking, he could stall him from prodding and slicing him any more with that damnable scalpel. Perhaps he could delay whatever experimentation Qyburn had planned for him.

"Of dragons, of course. Given our opponent, I have studied these creatures in some detail. Septon Barth thought dragons were the result of Valyrian bloodmages casting spells on wyverns and firewyrms. But that doesn't account for their ability to form bonds like friend and foe is intrinsically _human_, wouldn't you agree?"

This man's insight of dragons, despite having no contact with them, was surely strange. Clearly, he had pursued this train of thought and study for a number of years to build this observation, and it was one Jorah couldn't help but agree with; dragons could never be tamed because they were more than animal. Their sense of self and sharp understanding was undeniable. The aid of a dragon was at the whim of a dragon.

Qyburn continued, apparently satisfied with Jorah's silence as an answer: "The unique bond between Targaryens and their dragons certainly supports this. Dragons treat their riders as family, and have displayed an acute awareness and sense of _emotion _towards their riders throughout history. I have my own theory of course, and you...well, I am _delighted_ to have found you, Ser Jorah, because you may very well be the breakthrough I have searched for for _so_ long. To elevate man...beyond. To achieve _transformation_."

Jorah felt a finger and thumb jabbing to the upper and lower lid of his right eye then, prying his eye further open without much care for his comfort. He could feel Qyburn's breath drying his eye until it stung, the man leering in to examine Jorah's changed eye. This earned him another snarling growl.

"I've tried many times to recreate what I suspect the Valyrians did to create dragons. But there is hardly a spark of magic left in this world, and surely the world and the narrow-minded maesters have worked against me. Still, success has been wrought...I consider Ser Gregor one of my greatest successes in transformation. _Imagine_ what I could accomplish with the magic of Old Valyria back into the world..."

"It's already here," Jorah replied, voice coiling with threat. "In the veins of the _rightful _Queen."

"A little out of my reach, then. You will have to do," Qyburn smiled down at him. "If you can prove my theory right, I can perfect the art I started with Ser Gregor. Imagine the armies at Her Grace's disposal if I can perfect this...an army made of more than man.

"The necessary ingredients have been outside my reach, you see, lost in time. I theorise that, much as we do today, the families of Old Valyria functioned with a head family, and a cadet branch family. Though we tend to see simple oath-swearing between these two family branches today, I believe in years long gone the cadet branch family served a much more….well, _lowly _purpose. To serve the head family."

Qyburn moved from Jorah's view, and though he craned his neck best he could, he could not see what the man was collecting from across the room. His voice continued, however: "I theorise that the original Targaryen family was structured in such a way. Now, as you no doubt already know, Valyrians were keen practitioners of two branches of magic: bloodmagic and fire magic. _Fire and blood…_I propose that the head family practiced bloodmagic, and the cadet branch family practiced fire magic. Bloodmagic would make the head family perfect rulers, of course, and fire magic allowed the cadet branch family to protect them as soldiers."

As the other man rattled away his theories like an attention-starved creature hoping to gain a speck of admiration from another, Jorah's line of vision settled on an open book some distance from where he was bound. He couldn't hope to read it, but he could make out the illumination and illustration covering the pages; a silver-haired man on the left, adorned with a black gemstone on his wrist, and a red-haired man in the right, swathes in sanguine robes and bearing a ruby-stoned choker around his throat. The silver-haired man's hand was outstretched towards his red-haired kin, though Jorah could not determine much more from his restricted view.

"But what if the head family needed something _more?" _Qyburn pushed onwards. "I posit that the head family used their bloodmagic on their own, loyal cadet branch family...turning the fire-weaving mages into fire-breathing dragons, bonded by blood to serve the head family. This bond has lived on through the ages between dragon and Targaryen — in fire and blood."

Jorah, who had been trying to twist his wrists this way and that to loosen them from their bonds, spoke to stall once again.

"If you're right, this is a hopeless pursuit. You are not of Old Valyria. I am not of Old Valyria's cadet branch. You cannot hope to find the secrets of creating a dragon of your own."

"Of my own?" Qyburn sounded alarmed at the accusation. "My dear knight, I'm not looking to become a dragonrider. I can barely ride a horse.

"The fate of the head family, the dragonriders, is one of irony and fable-worthy lessons that I would wish to avoid. You see, despite having reigned over the cadet branch family for eons, the head family became jealous of the power their own bloodmagic had bestowed upon the cadet branch. They yearned for the power of a dragon, but did not possess the fire magic of their cadet family kin. The ancestors of the head family, the Targaryens, still hold this jealousy-tinged admiration. We call it the Targaryen madness — this all-consuming desire to be _more_. More than merely human. For them, it wasn't enough to be the _blood_ of the dragon. They want to be the _fire_ of the dragon too."

"...And what do you want?" Jorah asked, feeling one of the cuffs binding his hand slip a little. He needed to keep Qyburn distracted, and as Jorah knew well, intelligent men loved to speak of their own intelligence.

"I want what anyone wants, Ser Jorah. I want to be _more_...just as soon as I've perfected the art, of course. Until then, a gift for my Queen will suffice. It's very rare to find someone who appreciates my work as she does."

To Jorah's anguish, the man began cutting across his chest, around the scars that echoed of his greyscale. These scars had not become scales as his burns had, having formed before his death, and cutting through the thick tissues rekindled the agony of that long, silent night.

"Greyscale..." Qyburn muttered to himself. "You know, I suspect greyscale is a warped remnant of the head family's magic, scattered into the world after the Doom of Valyria. Without the cadet branch family's innate fire magic, the blood spell simply fosters scales that suffocates the body and drives the mind wild like those winged beasts. It's quite tragic, really. I suspect the first greyscale sufferers may have been head family Valyrians who tried to turn the dragon bloodspell upon themselves. Those poor stone men could have been dragons...if only they had fire in their veins. Aerion Brightflame no doubt went to bed pleading to the gods for this before he took matters into his own hands..."

Jorah's wrist twisted, pulled, but the metal biting into his flesh would not give any further, even as the dampness of blood began to trickle beneath the metal and between it and his skin. Mercifully, the deranged man stopped prodding and cutting at his scars and moved away again. When he returned Jorah felt the blood of his heart run cold at what he saw in Qyburn's hand.

A tiny vial of luminous green, a substance that seemed to swirl and churn of its own accord, its own rage, its own instability. The Pyromancers' pride and joy, their one last speck of magic in a world starved of its awe. And they chose to create _destruction_ with it.

"Let's put a little fire magic in _your_ veins, Ser Jorah," Qyburn spoke lightly, as though the man were offering him nothing more threatening than water. "The missing ingredient, as it were."

The ex-maester's other hand clamped around Jorah's lower jaw, pressing against the joints to force the struggling man's mouth open. He thrashed, twisted, felt bones in his wrists pop and snap for his struggle, but Jorah could do nothing as the wildfire was poured down his throat, igniting even before it reached his lips. The blinding emerald light flickered and danced over his vision, searing his face, blistering the skin, scorching his mouth and tearing his throat asunder even as he screamed in agony.

The unnatural flames charred his bones, shattering teeth, scalding tissue, melting his insides and boiling his mind in relentless agony until only one thought remained sane in Jorah's head:

_Let my next breath be my last. Gods, please, let it be my last. _


	12. Chapter 12

_**CHAPTER 12**_

_**-Daenerys-**_

Unwilling to risk Drogon above the Iron Fleet again, Daenerys found herself something of a prisoner on Dragonstone. The royal crown's fleet loomed in the distance, not willing to risk an assault upon the island, but knowing full well that the Dragon Queen could not stay forever.

Of course, Daenerys had no plans to remain on the island forever. She was simply waiting. Waiting for the right moment. The moment that would see the Iron Fleet sink into the deep…

So it was that the Targaryen busied herself with a new map, placing makeshift tokens representing her forces' current locations so that she could get a better visual on the situation. Dothraki and Unsullied at Harrenhal...Jon, Rheagal, a handful of Dothraki at Stoney Sept...Northmen and a handful of Unsullied, Drogon, and herself at Dragonstone. Daenerys' hand then lingered over two wooden tokens representing her Hand and Jorah. She had placed them roughly where Varys had told them the tunnel by the river opened out, heading in unseen to the Red Keep.

She stared at the spot for a long moment. _Varys_. Was his information of the tunnels tainted with treason too? She hoped not, and given Tyrion's own vouching for their existence, Dany felt assured. Likely they had already found the tunnels, explored them to ensure the exit had not been discovered and blocked, and returned back to Stoney Sept.

Despite her self-reassurance of this, Dany left their tokens by the riverside on the map instead of moving them to Stoney Sept. Something in her blood was stirring cold, a concern she could not see much less put her finger on.

With the night drawing in and the fire guttering out, the silver-haired woman made her way to her room, praying for clear skies the following morn and falling into a restless sleep, worrying of her Hand and her bear.

Sleep came quickly to the tired Queen, but it did not come restfully. Dreams of ashes fell before her eyes, of silver scales and emerald flames, a fire that frightened even the blood of the dragon within her. She dreamt of high towers and gleaming walls so far from the poison and rot of Westeros, of terrible storms churning the clouds above, a rain to cleanse the air. She dreamt of shining blue eyes, alive and fearsome, and lightning shattering the peace.

But, as with all her dreams, Daenerys found her feet landing on the stones once again, standing in the ruined hall of the Iron Throne.

"Robbing me of my rest will not release you from your purgatory," Daenerys snapped, fixing Melisandre with a withering glower. "What do you want of me?"

The Red Woman stepped out from one of the cracked and crumbling pillars, pacing in a slow circle around Daenerys.

"My life force is yet trapped in your knight. At _your _bidding. An act of sacrilege over the Lord of Light's desire will not go unpaid."

"The Lord of Light ought to be the one _paying_," Daenerys replied sharply, walking towards the throne in spite of herself. "We fought and won his war, we paid the cost a thousand times over. He can spare the life force of a single priest in payment."

"You would truly leave me in this limbo until your knight succumbs?"

At the foot of the throne, Dany turned on her heel and nearly bared her teeth at the other woman.

"You _murdered _an innocent child. I would see you roam as a ghost, unseen and unheard in your wails, for all eternity if I could."

At this, Melisandre's cinnabar eyes came to life with flame, an anger to match Daenerys' own.

"And you free slaves using slaves. Do not stand before me as though you were sinless. I know well the horrors I have caused. I do not seek to bury them."

"No one in my army is a slave." Daenerys could feel fury boiling in her blood, pressing her jaw tense in anger at the accusation. Few other accusations would scald her soul quite so much. "My armies follow me of their own free will and belief. Belief in me. They are not slaves."

"Is that so?"

A roar sounded overhead from the broken roof above them, and both Dany and Melisandre looked up to the shadow of a dragon soaring above. Casting a look to the Red Woman, Daenerys saw that her expression was one of awe and sadness, of pride and grief. "My life is one of flame, Targaryen. It may bend to the bloodmagic of the blood of the dragon, but it is always meant to burn as the fire of the dragon. It is _ill suited _to a lowly bear."

Before Daenerys could respond, flames began to grow and spread across the hall at an alarming rate, as though at the behest of Melisandre. The display did not frighten her; the flames could do nothing to her, this she knew. But the fire grew quickly, filling the room and blinding her from Melisandre's form. A rumbling growl shook the crumbling room, something uncoiling and moving within the flames.

"He will burn," Melisandre's voice elevated above the roaring fires, though a multitude of voices seemed to erupt from their depths. Two eyes blazed from the fires around her, a violent blue, not cold but alive with the fury of a storm, piercing her to—

"Your Grace!"

Daenerys woke with a start, sitting up so quickly that she nearly knocked Missandei over from where the poor woman had took hold of her arm to wake her.

"F-Forgive me, Missandei...a bad dream, is all."

She had thought she was being awoken for the day, but glancing outside, the air was still cold and heavy with the night's grip. Frowning, she turned to face Missandei. She realised how afraid her friend looked, her eyes wide and her jaw tense in concern. _We've been attacked_, Dany thought, quickly getting to her feet and giving her friend her undivided attention. "Missandei, what's wrong?"

"A-a raven, Your Grace. From King's Landing."

Dany looked down to see a small scroll in the other woman's hand, held a little too tightly. "It's...it's Ser Jorah and Tyrion, Your Grace."

Daenerys felt herself sway where she stood, a hand coming up to Missandei's shoulder partly to steady herself and partly to comfort her friend. Varys...had he told Cersei of their plan in the tunnels? She had captured her knight and her Hand, Daenerys' thoughts whirled in her mind, she had captured them and—

"It's an...an invitation," Missandei held out the note, the broken Lannister seal still sticking to it, tears in her eyes for what she knew of the fate of her friends. "Cersei asks that the Dragon Queen attend...a public execution. Held in...in your honour."

* * *

The morning sun had not yet risen, but a storm was certainly arising from the small, jagged rock of an island. Daenerys Stormborn tore from the halls and out into the night, a flutter of crimson in her wake as her silken cloak splayed out along her path. She did not need to call out for Drogon; the abyss-hued creature took to the skies at her very thought, landing before her in a plume of sand and broken shores. In his eyes she could see the same fury and vengeance that burned in her soul — he _knew _that the lioness had struck out at the dragon once again.

It would be for the last time.

Mounting Drogon, the pair took off silently, soaring up and up until the clouds broke above them and settled beneath. The freezing cold bit at her limbs, but she didn't care: her plan had been to use the blinding morning sun as cover to obliterate the Iron Fleet from the skies. The night sky would serve nearly as well, for the dark meant little to Drogon's eyes.

Diving into the grey swathes beneath them, rider and dragon plummeted in a headlong dive. When the clouds finally gave away either side of her, Dany could see the tiny specs of the Iron Fleet in the open water, grey on blackened waters, until the burst of scarlet and darkness from Drogon's throat set the world beneath her alight.

The great plumes of dragonfire continued on as Drogon soared and scorched through the fleet's numbers, sending sleeping men and terrified watchers to a burning grave in the ocean. As they banked to assault the fleet again, Daenerys saw some poor fools jump from the ships into the waters, only for the boiling liquid to flay the skin from them under the immeasurable heat of dragonfire.

It was cruel. It was ruthless. It was over in an instant, before a single Scorpion could be fired.

Daenerys Targaryen was done fighting by the rules and codes of men.

She would fight as she always had done.

As a _dragon_.

* * *

They flew through what little was left of the night, and by the time King's Landing rose like an ugly dawn of its own on the horizon, the sun was spilling over the land. It did little to sate the fury pulling at Daenerys' heart and mind. A gale-force barrage of thoughts stampeded through her head as she urged Drogon on — _I should have gone to King's Landing the moment I landed in Westeros, I should have burned the false queen where she stood, I should have taken the damn throne and then sent everyone North to face that creature of darkness, Viserion might be alive, Jorah would never have died, I should have razed the Red Keep and boiled Lannister gold for the crown Cersei stole from me, I should have_—

Drogon soared above King's Landing, his shadow blacking out the morning sun for the common folk below. Daenerys could see the people moving like one fluid mass below her, many heading in the same direction: towards the Red Keep. Dany's heart hammered in her chest as she realised Cersei had not provoked the dragon foolishly.

_She's building a human shield._

Giving a grunt of annoyance and curling her lip in anger, Daenerys guided Drogon across King's Landing circling the walls. Scorpions lined every inch of the battlements, but none were armed. She wanted to destroy them, a perfect opportunity presented to her...but her eyes kept falling to the innocents below. A stray flame, melting rock, destruction...it was too risky. Despite her anger-fuelled thoughts during her rush to the city, Dany knew well why she had not attacked King's Landing with her then-trio of dragons.

Yes, it would have fallen. With ease. And the world would have had, as Jon rightly said, 'more of the same'. A monarch mad with power, uncaring and unseeing of the individuals that made up the 'common folk'.

Drogon came to land on the inner wall of the city, leering into the courtyard of the Red Keep, with cries of shock and some of excitement sounding below. The gathering crowd was huge, and Daenerys felt sick to her heart; surely these people did not rush to attend the open display of death. Surely they had heard that the Dragon Queen was to arrive and simply gathered to glimpse a dragon...she hoped. She hoped that the people she sought to free were not as cruel as to revel in the death of their attempted saviours.

The Scorpions hadn't been mounted, Dany realised, because Cersei wanted to be _sure _she saw this display. Given the Iron Fleet's change in aim, no doubt Cersei knew the likelihood of killing a dragon with the lumbering weapons to be slim. Her ballista-archers aimed at Daenerys these days, but shooting her now would rob the Lannister of this orchestrated final blow.

Cersei would live to regret toying with her food, Dany swore to herself, as the great doors to the castle opened.

Drogon stirred, but he did not take flight, as the false Queen walked out, flanked by soldiers and the one man who ensured the rest were meaningless. The Mountain Who Rides, Jorah had told her after their meeting in the Dragonpit. Cersei's own poor reply to a dragon, no doubt.

A man robed and hooded in black emerged with her; Ser Ilyn Payne, no doubt, as Daenerys had been warned of the mute man from the Hound. Having coaxed something of a sense of respect from the Clegane, the man had listed off a few people for her to watch out for upon reaching the Red Keep. According to Clegane, "Payne loves his work, and your dad tore his fucking tongue out. He'd bend the knee to you only if you fucking broke it under him."

Then, alerted to a swell of jeers and scorn from the crowd, Daenerys' search settled on a man being all but dragged out of the keep in chains. One foot scraped along the ground, the other attempted to find a sense of balance enough to walk, but kept buckling beneath him, leaving the knight to be unceremoniously hauled across the rough stones and chucked bodily to the executioner's block. He landed heavily to the jeers of the crowd, and made a struggling attempt to at least sit up despite the imbalance of his hands tied behind his back.

Once more Drogon stirred, a threatening rumble growing from his throat at what he too saw. Dany's heart had more than fallen — it had crashed from her body and dropped into the streets below her, to be torn apart by the _animals _that did not make one move to help a _knight _being murdered by a pretender.

In the back of her mind, a whisper snaked through the roaring disquiet: _burn them all..._

No. These people were slaves to a tyrant, shackled in fear. She would not...she could not…

Jorah had managed to struggle to his knees, and Daenerys could see the wounds inflicted upon him. The sight stilled her blood. Blackened, scorched skin framed huge portions of scales, soaked copper in blood. His chest was all but plated in these scales, his throat coated in a mess of silver and copper as though the dragonscale had burst from within. Spines broke up from the edge of his jaw, and blisters marred against botched scales around his lips. She could see more clearly now why he had been unable to walk: his left leg look almost broken for the odd angle it was at, the ankle too high and toes curled like talons, scales stiffening his mangled foot.

Finally, he looked up, and saw her there with Drogon. She saw him lurch forward a little, perhaps he called to her, but she could not hear over the crowd. She could, however, hear the charges brought against him.

"Jorah Mormont, you are charged with the crime of selling men into slavery, breach of exile, and of treason against the true Queen of Westeros—"

The charges brought forth were swept away by a roar of jeering and booing from the crowd, insults and spite. Daenerys' eyes darted here and there across them, _no, _she thought frantically, _no, don't you see? Can't you see? He returned __**with **__your true Queen. He returned to strike off your chains, he __**died **__to save you from the winter...don't you see? Look! Look! Look what the lions have made of you! Can't you see your chains?!_

Once again, this flurry of thoughts came with a whisper, a little louder, from some dark pit of her soul: _burn them __**all.**_

Desperately, Dany tried to bury it with action. She could swoop in, but would Cersei turn her cruelty to the crowd of innocents in response? She could unleash dragonfire here and now, killing Cersei in one fell swoop...along with the crowd and Jorah. She could—

"—But the Queen is not without mercy," the statement from her crude Hand brought the crowd to silence, and Jorah looked over his shoulder at the man next to him. "As you can see, the Dragon Queen is a plague from beyond the waters. Look at what her dark magic has wrought of this man of Westeros. Look what the blood of the dragon does to men.. This poor man is suffering, his mind in thrall to her dark magic. People of Westeros...look upon the Dragon Queen's monstrous work and decide: does this traitor deserve the Queen's mercy? We serve your will, people of Westeros...should this traitor suffer or be granted the mercy of death?"

_Mercy_...Cersei had taken Daenerys' greatest weapon and forged a vile blade of her own. As the crowd's chants of '_Mercy! Mercy!'_ sounded, mixed with horror and curses for the sight of the dragonscaled man, some turning to look up at the Dragon Queen in fear and darting for the locked doors to slam fists against the wood in fear, Daenerys found herself staring straight at Cersei's smiling face.

_Mercy…_

_Show them mercy...free these poor people…_

The sounds around her faded and fell, her own breath the only accompaniment to her swirling mind.

_Their Queen has corrupted them...should they be left to suffer…?_

She couldn't save him. She couldn't save him, and she couldn't save them.

_...or granted the mercy of death…?_

...Did she want to save them anymore? Now that she had seen these people scream and yell for death.

_...Burn them all._

..._**No.**_

Daenerys inhaled, as though coming up for breath after being submerged in the flood of her own grief and darkness. No, her rage was not for these people. This...this was all they had ever known. The wheel, the joy in seeing others fall. Trampling others into the dirt and clamouring to see nobles and knights above fall.

This was the wheel, but the people were not to blame. Daenerys knew this.

Drogon roared in anger, Cersei's Hand leaning in to say something to Jorah before backing away and standing by the pretender of a queen.

"**Khaleesi!**"

Jorah's voice reached her, a roar of pleading and strength cutting through the poison of the crowd's own voice. "**Vorsa vos nakho jin zhavvorsa! ****L****anat!**"

His words took Dany by surprise, until she realised what execution they had planned for her knight. He was hauled to his feet and tied to a wooden scaffold, a pile of dried grasses and straw at his feet. Cersei truly did enjoy dripping salt-water into open wounds, as the executioner struck alight an oil-doused torch.

Dany couldn't see how to save him, but she could not stand by and watch her knight fall again. Drogon took to the skies towards the excecution block at her wordless command, even as she heard Jorah begging for her to flee still.

The torch was dropped at Jorah's feet, sparking up flames...of emerald.

_Wildfire_, Dany realised too late, noticing the absence of Cersei and her Hand and Mountain. Even the executioner looked shocked and terrified at the sudden appearance of unnatural flames, and the unstable substance tore up and over Jorah in the blink of an eye. The flames rushed out, catching everything and everyone in its path. Drogon shrieked in pain, a green flame spitting up and catching his tail, though the flame guttered out against the scales of his tail the heat had been horrifying enough for even a dragon to take note. Daenerys looked down — Jorah and the common folk were gone in a flash of impossibly-fast fire. Even if she had dove down with Drogon as soon as the torch had been dropped, she could not have matched its frightening speed burning through the area in a heartbeat.

Grief tore through Daenerys in raw, tearing anguish as she let out an unrestrained _scream _of agony at the loss of her knight and her people before her eyes; the price that demanded to be paid she thought, in the worst possible way. Below, the wildfire ripped through the crowd even as they ran for the locked gates; screams and cries curdled with the sound of horns issuing from deep within the keep.

Then...she saw it. Two, blazing blue eyes opening within the wicked green flames...and a pair of silver wings unfurling…

Drogon jolted up and away from the fire as a smaller dragon burst upwards, a bolt of silver with a comet-tail of green flames in its wake that burned at its scales and died away as the dragon took to the air. Powerful wings beat with echos of thunder, electric blue eyes fixed upon the larger black-scales dragon. Drogon opened his mouth, flames dancing between his teeth in warning to the other, but he did not attack at Daenerys' behest.

Incredulous, Dany felt her jaw loosen in awe of the creature in the skies before her. She knew those eyes.

"..._Jorah?_"

The silver dragon reared back then and unleashed a screaming roar against the sound of horns still bellowing from the castle beneath them — then _struck _like lightning towards Drogon and Daenerys, teeth and claws bared.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Again, thank you for the wonderful reviews — every single one motivates me to write more! Some were asking about the Dothraki in the last chapter. Apologies, I had intended to write the translation at the bottom and forgot. Jorah said (roughly): "Fire cannot kill a dragon. Go/flee!". Prior to this, Qyburn had leant in to say something to Jorah, and he realised what was about to happen. Jorah was trying to tell Dany (quickly) that he would be fine and to save herself from the incoming wildfire.**

**Bonus points to anyone who spots the cheeky nod to S08E04 near the end of this chapter…**

* * *

_**CHAPTER 13**_

_**-Jorah-**_

The sound tore him from the darkness and forced him, screaming and struggling, into the bright and cruel light of the world. It wound around his very being, more painful than even the wildfire that now ignited the Red Woman's fading fire magic within his veins and tethered it to Targaryen blood magic, the very magic that had dragged him from death and demanded that he _live_ once more. It scored into his scales and puppetted him to do its bidding, that awful hell-bound sound rising from the Red Keep as he rose from the emerald flames.

The current master of the Dragonbinder was out of sight, but the silver dragon heard its call all the same, the ungodly noise carrying its master's wishes.

_Kill the dragon and its rider. _

Whether or not he wanted to did not factor in the newly-risen dragon's mind. Though his foe was larger than he, the silver dragon struck quickly, jaws aiming at the other's throat. With a roar of indignation, the black-scaled dragon reeled away, dark fire shot through with crimson ablaze in its snarling mouth. The silver dragon wanted to respond in kind, but found no flames would draw from its throat. Quickly, he soared down and away from the other, expecting a plume of fire to follow — but none came. Nearly lost in the horn sounding from the Red Keep, the silver dragon could hear the rider's command for the other not to harm him.

A growl of protest and frustration saw the larger dragon start to escape, flying away from the carnage of fire below them and out towards the sea. This dragon was far stronger than he, the silver realised, but not faster. With a thunderous crash of his wings, the silver-scaled creature had caught up and clamped his jaws down hard on the dragon's hind leg, scales piercing under fangs and claws. His fighting was rabid, unfocused, and utterly without much thought for tactic or strategy. All he knew was the command — _kill the dragon and its rider. _

The black dragon bellowed and began to jolt this way and that to throw the other off; the silver dragon refused to relinquish, claws tearing into the other's side as it all but clambered and coiled over him. He was dragging the larger dragon down quickly, losing height and bringing the sea closer and closer. In one, brief moment, the silver dragon locked eyes with its other target; the dragon's rider was looking at him, fearful and horrified in equal measure.

In that one, brief moment, the iron-grip of that horn's sound seemed to melt away from his limbs. The sound itself was growing weaker, its great cry left behind on the shores and within the keep that was nothing but a rapidly-dwindling speck in the distance behind them.

It felt as though a veil was lifting from his eyes, loosening his grip and confusing his mind in equal measure. That was all the black dragon needed to finally shirk the other off of him, and the silver dragon fell away from him, descending in a near-headlong dive before finding his wings once more and, less sure of himself for the confusion in his mind, set off at flight again, screeching and howling.

What was he? _Where_ was he? He felt now that he needed that terrible sound, that awful sound that bound him to its will. At least then he knew, he knew something, anything, something to—

The other creature slammed into him then, crashing into the silver and knocking him so forcefully from his flight that his fall brought his back legs skimming across the ocean's surface as he regained his balance. Gathering himself and taking flight once again, the silver dragon roared in fury, though still no flames came to its call. Fire yet danced in the other dragon's mouth, but did not descend upon him at his rider's demand.

On and on they went, this confused tangle and broken battle dragging on for hours without either relinquishing to exhaustion, until the sea ebbed away to find land once more.

The other dragon, far more powerful and devastating, had gained the upper hand in their skirmish and, with another snap of its fire-clad jaws, managed to grab the silver dragon by the throat. He gave a howl of pain, drowning out the sound of the rider's yell of protest, and then...he was being driven down. Down, down, hurtling rapidly through the air as the black-scaled dragon lurched into a nose-dive with the silver still locked in its jaws. He struggled, writhed, but could not hope to free himself from the dark dragon's grip, and then…

The silver dragon was slammed into the ground below, stone obliterating to dust under the impact of dragonscales. Finally, the black dragon had let go, descending with far more grace a short distance away.

Snarling, the beaten and battered silver crawled from the rubble-littered ground, blue eyes fixed on the lava-like gaze of the other dragon. The unusually large claws of the silver's front wings clashed and scraped against the stones like steel as he crawled, growl rumbling in his throat. He moved slowly, partly in weariness of the other, and partly for the person now standing before him; the rider had disembarked the black dragon and was now standing before the silver one, resolution in her stance and without fear.

Cerulean eyes bobbed down to meet the woman's level, silver-scaled head lowering and teeth bared. The amethyst-eyed woman did not flinch.

"Jorah," her voice was level, calm, and wholly familiar to the silver dragon, though he could not think how. "Of all the people in this cruel and unjust world...of all the people I have ever known...you would be the last person to harm me."

The woman extended a hand out, reaching to him. Confused and angered, the silver reared up and roared in warning, seeing the black dragon responding in kind behind the woman. Still, no flames bore forth from the silver's throat. The woman still walked forward slowly, reaching to him. "I have lost you so many times, ser. Do you remember?"

Though he snarled and growled, the dragonrider did not break her pace. She wasn't pleading, nor was she begging; instead, there was nothing but certainty in her words as she continued: "You prayed for home, and you betrayed me for the promise of your home...and I sent you away from my side. The pain within my heart that day was one of hatred. But you fought your way back to me, defended me even in exile, and when my heart had healed and my hurt receded, I _forgave_ you. And then — then I lost you again. With a death sentence etched on your skin and an impossible order from your queen, I sent you away from my side once again. This time, the pain within my heart was one of sorrow."

Did he remember? Flashes of steel, fractured slivers of grey stone on bleeding flesh...did he remember?

The silver dragon lowered ever so slightly, not knowing why he was so hypnotised to hear her words.

"Once more, you fought through it all. You survived, you fought, and you endured the only cure for your affliction, and you returned to me. My heart healed for the sight of you, and I _embraced_ you. And then...and then I—"

The silver-haired woman stopped, her voice catching in her throat, faltering. It was but for a moment before she found her strength again: "Then I lost you _again_. You shielded me from the blades of my enemies beyond what any man should endure. You stood between me and my enemies until they fell, and then you...you died in my arms." The memory cracked and splintered the dragonrider's words with anguish that could not be hidden. "The pain in my heart...was of utter _heartbreak _and grief. But every time there is pain in my heart, you fight to return to my side, first for my forgiveness, second for my embrace. Through exile, through damnation, even through death."

A hand came down to be placed flat against the silver dragon's jaw, and the tearful woman smiled to him. "So this? _This_ is not what will take you from me, Ser Jorah Mormont. Come back to me, my love."

Her words seeped through her heart and pierced through his mind to awaken something of a memory in the silver dragon. He was...he was Jorah. Jorah Mormont, only...he was not. Something of his soul was...wasn't it?

Oh, but one thing shone clear in his heart. The clear, resounding understanding that even if he forgot everything of himself, he would not forget his heart. He would _not_ forget his heart, nor who his heart belonged to.

A surge of confusion, a cry of rage, and suddenly the silver dragon backed away from the woman, its shimmering-scaled head shaking this way and that, wings crashing and scraping across the ground. The awful feeling of being _fragmented_, at odds within himself, the disorientation it brought, it was tearing at him asunder and for all the world it felt as though he was being pulled apart.

Screeching and wailing, the dragon collapsed to his knees, scales shivering from the impact and showering down to the ground as they fell like leaves from a dying tree. The creature seemed to fold in, shrinking as bones snapped and reformed down, scales still raining down to dust. Wings drew in, jaws receded, the echo of the dragon's wail clinging to the air around them, until—

* * *

"Jorah?"

Why...no. No, he thought to himself, no that's right. That's his name. Why, for a moment, had it felt like such a strange address?

His head was pounding, as though too many thoughts had been pushed into it at once. Groaning, Jorah screwed his eyes tightly shut before blinking them opening achingly against the morning light, blocked in part by the worried face of his Queen peering down at him.

"Khaleesi..." Jorah slurred, his throat raw and stinging as he spoke. With her help, he sat up, though every joint in his body yelped in protest. He felt bruised, battered, and throughly in need of a good sleep. A few fractured memories floated to the forefront of his mind; he had been tied to stake, the scent of something more volatile than mere oil burning his nostrils. Qyburn, what was it he had said? Of fire and his great success to come, something of the sort. A blinding surge of brilliant green light, and then...darkness. He'd woken up here, wherever _here_ was. Staring down at his scarred hands, Jorah turned them over to find his right hand, previously awash with scales, was now quite human. Skin mottled with nothing more alarming than scars.

He moved one hand to his neck, then up to his face — nothing rougher than stubble greeted his touch, no sign of the scales that had been there before. So many questions tumbled through his mind, all of them singing of fire and blood.

Before he could open his mouth to ask, Jorah felt warm hands reach to either side of his face, cupping his jaw.

"I can't keep losing you," Daenerys said, half smiling with joy, half tearful from fear. "How many times must I lose you?"

It was difficult to think clearly, what with his Queen being quite so close to him and the fog of exhaustion wracking his whole body. Still, he managed to find his voice, sluggish though it was.

"You once told me...that when you take the Seven Kingdoms, you'll need me by your side," Jorah replied. "So I'll always find my way back to your side. As my Queen commands."

Dany paused, studying his face intently enough that Jorah found himself forced to look away. His heart almost stopped when he heard her speak again:

"And how many times must I lose you to realise what's right here before my eyes?"

Before he could open his mouth to reply, Jorah was robbed of his voice by lips pressed against his own.

The knight froze.

Even when Daenerys pulled away from him, Jorah found he could barely string a coherent thought together enough to speak, becoming horrifically aware of his gaping mouth and stunned look. He was frozen so resolutely to the core that for an extended second, Jorah neglected to breathe, as though he were afraid that doing so would wake him from this dream. When he finally did inhale, it was sharp, short gasp and a splutter somewhere between "Khaleesi" and "Your Grace" stumbling together, leaving the man feeling utterly helpless.

Luckily, the smiling Targaryen before him seemed to know quite well the effect she had had on him in such a simple gesture. She rescued him from his tangled mind and stuttering tongue with another gentle kiss, one that this time he was able to return in earnest. He could smell sea salt on her skin mixed with the light heat of cinders and the warm grace of spices. For the life of him, Jorah could not quite allow himself to believe that this was even real, much less to entertain the confession behind the Silver Queen's kiss — one of love, a love realised and finally reflected.

* * *

Though the moment shared between them had long since past, Jorah found himself still elated hours after, unable to wipe the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Normally, he would have quietly embraced this rare moment of joy.

Normally, he wouldn't be acutely aware of Drogon's coal-like eyes burning into him intently.

As much as Dany had raised them, Jorah had seen these dragons as hatchling through to their now-adult forms. It was rather alarming to remember a time when Drogon had been able to sit on Jorah's shoulder, and the little creature often had, if only to try and steal his food.

Though the man felt he had some silent respect from Daenerys' dragons for his part in their upbringing, they were, of course, still dragons. One twitch of Drogon's jaw and he would be a pile of ash or crunched to bones, and Jorah would never forget this.

So it was that as the trio traveled on foot across the stoney island they had crash-landed on that Jorah felt a cold sweat growing over the back of his neck at the dragon's intent scowl.

"Khaleesi..." Jorah tried to speak without moving too much, as though a sudden movement would draw Drogon's rage. "Would—would you be as so kind…?"

Having walked a little further ahead, Daenerys turned to look over her shoulder at the pair behind her. Her face, previously tense with thought of how their current predicament impacted their strategy to take King's Landing no doubt, lit up with a grin, clearly finding Drogon's reaction to Jorah amusing. The huge serpentine creature was huffing and sniffing at the knight, his nostrils flaring and puffing smoke up at the nervous man.

"Drogon, leave him be," Dany spoke as she walked back to them, placing a soothing hand on Drogon's snout and guiding him gently away from Jorah. "You know Jorah. And if Gryves returns, you shall know him better too."

_Gryves_. As they had set off earlier in the day to find out _where_ in the world they had ended up, Daenerys had regaled to Jorah _how_ they had ended up here at all. She spoke of a silver dragon emerging from the flames in Jorah's stead, and its frenzied attack on Drogon. The thought brought shame to Jorah's heart that he could be at all responsible for attacking his Queen, and in truth, it planted the seed of worry in his mind that he would need to leave her side yet again in order to protect her.

She knew him too well, of course, and had quickly commanded him as her knight not to plan to leave her side for 'any such reason as that'. The dragon was quite separate from Jorah, she said, and was a confused and frightened creature born of a mixture of tumultuous and chaotic events; her magic drawing Jorah back from death, the spark of fire magic in Melisandre's gemstone, and the unholy wildfire set upon him had all fused into this angered awakening of a dragon that should not have existed. Should the silver dragon resurface — and she thought it well could, having informed Jorah that while his scales had disappeared, his right eye remained inhuman — Daenerys spoke with no doubt that she could calm the creature and help it. The Dragon Queen had taken to referring to the dragon separately from Jorah, naming it Gryves.

"You never told me why you named me—named _him _so," Jorah said, thankful for the breathing space Dany had coaxed from Drogon. "You named Drogon for your husband, and Viserion and Rhaegal for your brother. Who is Gryves named for?"

Daenerys offered Jorah a sad smile, her hand slipping away from Drogon's snout as she turned to face him.

"I named him for a proud house that Westeros owes much to, a house that stood firm when the Night King descended," she spoke honestly and with admiration in her tone. "I hope that their words will find honour—no, I _know _their words will find honour on the shoulders of my silver dragon.

"_Gryves _is High Valerian. It means _bear_."

Jorah's feet stopped, his heart skipping and lurching down suddenly. Gods...his house. He hadn't forgotten, of course, but somehow when spoken, it became all too real again. Every person in House Mormont was...dead. Only he survived, a disgraced and exiled Mormont who, of everyone in his house, did not deserve such mercy. And he had survived on spells and magic and sheer improbability. Had it not been for the Dragon Queen, the House of Bear Island would have been extinct. Now, it hung on by a single thread; a delayed demise, Jorah feared.

Seemingly spurred by the look of grief that he could not hide from his features, Jorah felt Daenerys' hands come to rest on his forearms. Looking up under his brow at his Queen, he saw concern glittering in her eyes and heard it in her voice as she asked him: "Is that alright?"

"...It is an honour, Your Grace. A thoughtful gesture, and one I hope I—one I hope _he _learns to hold with pride. For my Queen and for my House."

Daenerys beamed, her whole face lighting up in relief and hope. Suddenly, the strength between them was completely palpable, and the idea of seeing her take the Seven Kingdom was no longer a question but a sensible fact. This woman would change the world, of this Jorah had never had a doubt.

Right now, it was clear she already had — it was just a matter of waiting for the world to look up from the dirt the wheel had crushed it down into, to look up and witness the flight of the Dragon Queen, with her gentle heart and indomitable soul.


	14. Chapter 14

_**CHAPTER 14**_

_**-Daenerys-**_

Though the pair walked further inland, it wasn't long before Drogon became restless. Unfurling his great wings and casting her and Jorah into a sudden, cool shade, the colossal dragon took flight, the surge of his wingbeats casting up dust and stones before he soared away. It brought no worry or fretting to Daenerys' heart — her dragons were more than just fire made flesh. They were freedom taken to the skies too, and she knew that they would always return to her side.

This brought her attention back to Jorah, her steadfast shield. He had brought an arm up to shield his eyes from the debris Drogon's wings had stirred up, and was now brushing away fragments of stone and sand from his tattered clothing. Daenerys felt her face prickle red as she considered the fact that 'clothing' was a little too grandiose a word for the state of the poor man before her. Once more, the woman found herself without her silken crimson scarf, only recently replaced by the tailors in Stony Sept, though this time it had not been to hide a scale-ridden face.

"We ought to find you some more...robust attire," Daenerys said, her words succinct and matter-of-fact to save them both. "It'll be...cold...when the night falls."

She turned away smiling, offering Jorah a small mercy that his burning-red face would not be seen by his Queen. By no means was he as displeasing to the eye as he would remark of himself in rare moments of self-reflection, but Daenerys knew enough of the man to know that that particular wound ran deep and would not be healed by a single reassurance.

Walking further from the shoreline, the Queen and her knight finally came to the mainland. The land before them was oddly fractured, made of multiple spires of stone separated by the sea between them. Each landmass contained a smattering of ruins shared among them; great archways, topless towers crowned in curved, elegant spikes akin to the horns of dragons. Its architecture was unlike anything Daenerys had never seen before and yet, seemed as though it ought to be familiar. Its half-familiarity mixed with its ruination kindled a sense of grief within her, a heartbreak she felt she had forgotten but could not say why.

"I know this place..." she said under her breath, studying the beautiful tragedy laid to waste before her. A once-proud land now nothing but ashes and stone.

"I've been here before," Jorah's voice sounded at her side, gilded with calm but betrayed by a memory of fear. "This is the Valyrian Peninsula, Your Grace. Before you stands the city of Old Valyria."

The grief within Dany sharpened to sorrow, and then, strangely, to excitement. Her homeland, the homeland she never knew, was splayed out before her. Ruined and broken, yet no doubt holding so many secrets of her ancestors and her family. And here she was, standing before it all, the last true blood of the dragon before an eon of ghosts.

A smile curled the corners of Dany's lips and brought a renewed clarity to her violet eyes, aglitter with equal measures of sadness and adoration for what was presented to her. Here, she realised, here she could find even more facets of her strength. Of this she was sure.

The roars of dragons and riders long gone would finally be heard.

* * *

Jorah had been incredibly reluctant to stay, advising Dany to call Drogon to them that they might escape. Stone Men roamed these lands now, the very lands Jorah had found him afflicted by the usually-fatal disease. She heard his fears, but assured him they would not fall prey to the poor souls left here — they had the advantage of sharper minds and footing on land, Dany reminded him.

The first ruin they passed was littered with skeletons, some of which still bore armour. Blackened and worse for wear, perhaps, but still usable. Scraps of rotting cloth, cottons and leathers, she had gathered them all, along with any other items within the ruins that seemed semi-useful. They had then set up a small camp at the outer edge of the ruin, an old helmet filled with water boiling over an open fire; Jorah was using the hot water to clean the scraps of half-decomposed materials they had found before sewing them together with the fibrous, stringy reeds they had found growing along the edges of the cliff-sides and had pulled apart into makeshift threads.

"When did you learn to sew clothes?" Daenerys asked, watching Jorah as he worked to finish a pair of very scrap-patched trousers.

"A long time ago, Your Grace. You know now how harsh the winters can be up north. A hole in a shirt could see the cold bite flesh from a man," he said, finishing up and shaking out the haphazard garment. "...Hmph. It'll do for now."

Politely, Daenerys turned away to watch the sea nearby as Jorah dressed. Metal jangled as armour was affixed, belts clipped, and an exhale and thud a little to her side told her the man was feeling a little more like a knight again now he had some sort of armour, and had sat down next to her once again. Daenerys turned to face him in the firelight.

"There's a wonderful tailor at Stoney Sept. I shall ask her to make you a new outfit when we return," she teased, poking a finger at Jorah's thigh were the stitches were particularly untidy. Jorah didn't look sure whether to laugh or look offended; the Queen shuffled a little closer to him to assure him it should be the former.

"Perhaps more than one, if Gryves shows up again, Your Grace." Jorah spoke as though he were hopeful that the silver dragon would not appear again. Daenerys knew well that Jorah was an intensely private man, with fragments of his life and memories only coaxed out by her in rare moments of calm such as this. He seemed quite reluctant to speak of his own life, dreams, and woes, as though they paled in comparison to her own. He would not speak of his pain, and often the Queen found herself troubled that her knight had wounds to heal that threatened to fester in his resolute quiet.

"What did Qyburn do?" Daenerys asked. She was quite sure no one in this land had the power to bring dragons forth into the world, and that Gryves' emergence was certainly the result of her use of her untamed magic and Melisandre's last whisper of fire magic upon Jorah. The silver dragon may have eventually appeared even without Cersei's Hand intervening.

"The man is obsessed with transforming into something more. He was simply curious of my...draconian look then. Nothing more."

"Jorah..."

Daenerys knew if she pried further, he would tell her everything. But she could see his eyes, cast stoney-cold towards the dancing flames, were etched with all the pain Cersei's leech of a Hand had put him through. Whatever Qyburn had subjected him to, it had led to the use of wildfire on such a reckless scale, burning alive innocents in a heartbeat. Burning _him_ alive.

"He learnt nothing he could use against you, Your Grace. He said it himself...he couldn't transfer my condition to another. I fear that was his goal — to raise dragons of his own."

"Did he not?" Daenerys saw Jorah move then, looking at her with a frown creasing his brow. "Gryves...attacked Drogon. It wasn't until we landed here that he stopped. Can you remember why?"

Blue eyes went back to the flames, and Dany saw guilt tearing up through Jorah's features. She recalled how he had told her there was a beast in every man, and it stirred when a sword was put in his hand. But gods, put a stick into his hand and he would beat himself with it instead.

"Perhaps I...he...was just confused. Lashing out," he admitted, voice clipped. "I do remember a sound, but...I thought it was simply the wildfire."

_A sound. _Dany recalled there had been a peculiar noise shortly after the silver emerged; a roar of its own, issuing from the Red Keep. She had thought it was a response to the wildfire, a horn blared in false warning to protect the pretender's integrity. The information was useless for now, and would perhaps lead nowhere, but she tucked it away in her mind all the same.

"Gryves knows me now," Daenerys assured him, placing a hand on Jorah's arm. "And I know you. He did not harm me then, nor will he ever."

Jorah looked down at her by his side, a small smile making it to his face despite his concern.

"Nor will I ever."

* * *

They had spent the night within the ruins once Drogon had returned to settle down to sleep. The dragon's sleeping body easily covered the entrance to the ruins, and once Jorah had hauled enough broken stones to block up the gaps of the collapsed corridor they chose to sleep in, he seemed satisfied for its safety against Stone Men.

The morning sun awoke them as it did Drogon, and one more the obsidian-scaled creature took to the skies and left them upon the ground.

"Valyria is his home too," Dany had said. "No doubt he wishes to explore as much as I do."

Though her knight had once more given voice to his concerns, Daenerys compromised with but a day. She confessed to Jorah that she had always wanted to fly to the peninsula, to see her homeland and explore its ruins, but had felt it a needless and selfish dream that would bring no benefit. "I have waited years for the throne; I will give another day for the chance to see my home."

Of course, with the splintered state of Old Valyria, much of the city was out of reach without the aid of her dragon. Instead, the duo opted to explore one of the larger ruins to the east of the disarray that had housed them for the night.

Even in its destruction, the structures of the ancient city held an elegance and grace in their construction that Daenerys had not seen anywhere in Essos or Westeros. Faded gilding and wind-worn carvings set among fractured stones as the Queen walked through the gloom of the ruins. Had this been someone's grand home once? A tower? A hall? It was impossible to tell, and she drew her hand lazily along the wall to her left as though to touch the stones would offer her a whisper of the past.

No whispers, no crackle of magic, no warmth. Only cold stone greeted her fingertips. _Was this what home felt like_, Dany wondered to herself. It didn't seem right.

She followed after Jorah as he carried a torch through the gloom, sword drawn to check around each corner before they continued on. Eventually, they came to a great carving within the silver-grey stone walls, firelight dancing against it as they both stopped to view this shard of history.

Daenerys stepped forward, placing her hand flat against a carving on the left of the wall. A person with long, flowing hair, the faintest wisp of silver gilding long since faded colouring the locks, stood grandly against a backdrop of dragons, hand outstretched with a miniscule black gemstone set within a bracelet that linked up to his middle finger in a tiny, intricate chain. _Z__īrtys perzys__, _Daenerys recognised it in her mother tongue, _dragonglass_. This strange, magical substance was webbed throughout history. She had heard through Jon that Bran had witnessed the magical stone being used to transform a man into the Night King and bind it to the demands of the Children of the Forest. A failed ceremony by all accounts, but a testament to its power.

Following it along, she found another figure carved on the right of the wall, the red dye still staining the stone where their hair and robes were carved. A tiny, red gemstone was buried within the wall at this figure's throat, exactly as the Red Woman had worn her strange choker.

Her brow furrowed: what were Red Priests to the world of Valyria? She turned to Jorah in silent question, expecting confusion in return. And yet, the man's mismatched cyan eyes were fixed upon the carving with a look of recognition. Puzzled, Daenerys stepped towards him, head tilted a little in curiosity of his expression in the firelight.

"Ser Jorah?"

The sound of his name snapped him from his reverie. The knight blinked sharply, looking down at the Targaryen with something of discomfort upon his features.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I...I recognise this."

He nodded towards the great wall carving. "There was a similar image in a book in Qyburn's laboratory. His theory seems to hold water after all."

Pressed by her questioning look, her knight went on to explain what the false queen's Hand had said to him during his capture. Jorah spoke tersely, as though he knew the words would wound Daenerys: he spoke of the head families and cadet branch families in Westeros, and how Qyburn realised House Targaryen had had more than House Blackfyre as its branch. As an older house, the ancient Targaryens had another cadet branch family, one that carried the fire of the dragon. A house of fire mages that served House Targaryen's blood mages.

Daenerys turned to look again at the carving, of the figure robed and choked in ruby. _The fire of the dragon_, she thought, reaching up to touch the small ruby at their stone-chiselled throat. Fire, a servant of blood...her blood. The blood of the dragon.

"What happened to this cadet branch? There is no mention of them in books from before the Doom of my land," Daenerys asked, looking over to the silver-haired figure to her left. _A blood mage_, she thought, eyes on the black stone at his wrist. _Am I a blood mage too? Is that the truth of my magic?_

"They...became something else, Your Grace."

Baffled, Daenerys stopped mid-inspection of the dragonglass. It had caught her eye, a contrast to the red stone and perhaps a sister to its power, but in a way she did not yet fully understand. The firelight moved away, leaving her a little in gloom as Jorah drew the torch further along the wall.

The carving continued from peace into...horror. Carvings of twisted creatures, half-man, half-lizard.

_No, _Daenerys realised, feeling her skin sicken with the cold clammy hands of dread. _Half-man, half...dragon. _The figures coiled and twisted all along the wall, until, at its end, a dragon reared up fully-formed, others taking to the skies.

All collared and chained...with a ruby at their throats.

Bloodmagic had bound the cadet branch to her house's ancient ancestors...magic and dragonglass turning people into dragons that would do their bidding, just as the Children had used it to turn a man into the Night King to do their bidding. History repeated its mistakes, in fire and ice.

Daenerys backed away, her stomach turning to ice itself. Oh, she had known shadows danced along her family's history, shadows she had hoped to repent for in her duty to save this world from its chains. She had always wondered how her dragons seemed to react to her very thoughts, the very instincts of her blood...how their understanding of the world far surpassed any other animal, even perhaps beyond men.

"Khaleesi, this...this is not your sin to repay." Jorah's voice broke through the dark swirl of panic in her mind. She swallowed, her dry throat constricting, turning eyes to plead with the other man. Jorah seemed as scared as she was, a tension in his jaw stunting his words with what sounded akin to pain. "You are breaking chains, Your Grace, all over the world. In your world, every man, woman, and child will be free. And your dragons...they do not _serve_ you, Khaleesi. You know, and they know, their freedom is theirs."

But this horrible revelation splayed before her was too much to bear — the origin of these great, magical creatures...bound in chains. Chains that had broken, no doubt, for the dragons of modern ages fended for themselves, and lived for themselves. But though their current bloodline hatched from those beautiful scaled eggs, their ancestors...had been human.

Had been slaves...to her house.

Binding fire and blood.

"I—" She could not break her gaze away from the awful carving before them. Shaking her head, she stepped back, looking at the horrifying truth and wishing it would crumble away like the rest of the ruins.

The madness of her father, the cruelty of her ancestors, the subjugation of the firemages...her bloodline was riddled with shadows. Were these shadows in her own heart too? Would they consume her too?

_Haven't they already? _A wicked voice hissed in her mind, recalling her execution of the Tarlys in fire, of her barely-contained rage at the people of King's Landing chanting for Jorah's death.

_What if I am my father's daughter? What if I am my ancestor's will? What if history repeats itself...through me? _

Her senses became overloaded, and even in the quiet of the ruins, the silence pressed in like the most unearthly sound threatening to deafen her. The light flicked and flitted from the torch, too bright, too fast, the smell of burning oil smoke choking her, the clatter of Jorah dropping the torch to the floor crashing against her ears painfully and—

Dany turned and fled the ruins. She ran even as she heard Jorah calling after her. She ran even as she stumbled through the darkness, tripping on fallen stones and carved statues reduced to rubble. She picked herself up and darted to the exit, needing the sun, needing light, needing air, needing _something _to chase this stifling, suffocating heritage away from her shoulders, _something _to help her remember she was Daenerys Stormborn, _Daenerys Stormborn_, and she was not her house's sins.

The Queen broke out into the fresh air, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes for but a moment. _Gods_, she had always known of the darkness that seeped through her house, the family she had never truly known. But she, perhaps naively, had hoped the recent madness of her family had been just that: recent, and not telling of its long history, of Aegon the Conqueror and long before. For years she had filled in the blanks in her mind with noble stories of strength and awe, placing these faceless ancestors of her own creation on pedestals as heroes and just warriors, hoping one day to be like them.

She looked down at herself, opening her eyes. _Fire and blood_. For much of her life she had said the words infrequently. Not out of hatred for her house, but out of pride in herself. What Daenerys had earned, she had earned her own way. She had forged thrones in Qarth and Meereen, become a leader of the Dothraki, and not with fire and blood, but with her own strength and will.

But before travelling to Westeros, Daenerys had decided to embrace her Targaryen lineage boldly and proudly. She bore her house's colours, she sat upon its Dragonstone throne, she spoke and followed their words. Though she had not lived as one, she had decided to arrive in Westeros as a Targaryen through and through.

Until now, Daenerys had thought this was the next step on her path towards her destiny. Now, she realised she had lost part of herself in crossing the sea. She had lost what made her Daenerys Stormborn, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. She had come to Westeros the very image of a Targaryen — why had she been surprised at the fearful faces of those who had endured the rule of a Mad Targaryen not long before her?

She had lost faith in herself, Daenerys realised, in facing the fear of the unknown, the fear of Westeros, she had lost faith in herself. She had forgotten that her claim to the throne was more than just in her blood — even if she had been born into the poorest house of the lowest social standing, Daenerys was born to be the Queen Who Freed The World.

"K-Khaleesi!"

Daenerys heard Jorah's voice issuing from the ruins. _He must still be exhausted from Gryves' fight with Drogon, _she thought to herself, _to take this long to catch up. _

"Forgive me. I had...forgotten something," Daenerys called back with a smile, turning to face the ruin's archway to greet her knight. "I am not the _blood of the Targaryen_. I am Daenerys Stormborn, _blood of the dragon_. And this..."

She looked over her shoulder at the cold ruins around them. The echoes of a catastrophe that had obliterated nearly all of her ancestors, save a handful of Targaryens who fled. The land she had dreamt of for years, the perfect home she had created in her mind that, as all things in reality did, failed to compare or become true. There was nothing for her here; this land spurred nothing in her heart after all, no strange sense of calling or connection, no soul-bound familiarity. This land held whispers of history that she did not belong to.

"This is not my home."

Daenerys turned to face the ruins again, seeing Jorah emerge, half-staggering. With a pang of pity in her heart, Daenerys stepped forward, closing the gap between them and placing a hand on her knight's chest, rising and falling rapidly as it was. His breath was rattling in his lungs, bringing Dany's brow knitting together in a frown.

"It is not...but perhaps it should become mine," Jorah's voice was riddled with a gruff undercurrent of a growl that tore up his usually deep and smooth tones. He straightened up, lifting his bowed head and looking at Daenerys properly for the first time since leaving the ruins.

Once more, his face was mottled with silver scales...


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Sorry this took a little longer than my usual speed. It's been a difficult week. **

**As always, thank you for reading, and every review puts a lovely smile on my face. **

* * *

_**CHAPTER 15 **_

_**-Jorah-**_

Jorah did not cherish the idea of remaining in the ruins of Old Valyria, cast out with the Stone Men who roamed this shattered land. But the idea was infinitely preferable to becoming a burden to his Queen, failing to fulfil a useful purpose to her. Or, worse, becoming a threat. While Daenerys seemed sure she could now calm the furious silver dragon, Jorah was not willing to take that risk in the slightest. She had come too far to fall now, much less by his hand.

"You cannot wage war on the Lannisters with you attention divided, Your Grace," Jorah pleaded with her, though his previously-hammering heart reflecting Daenerys' own panic was beginning to calm within his chest.

As bedraggled as he was, half-twisted from the pain of his body starting to boil under the fire of the dragon once again, skin blistering and peeling away to those telltale scales, his Queen stood as a complete contrast; calm, collected, and poised. She did not let even a moment tick by to consider his offer of falling upon a sword — stepping forward, Daenerys brought a hand to his shoulder and gently pushed him to straighten up, her eyes not leaving his.

"And would my attention not be divided with you here, worrying what has become of my most loyal knight?" She asked simply, before smiling and adding: "Or what has become of the man who gave me his heart, as I have to him?"

The memory of her kiss would comfort him for the rest of his life, even if it were to be spent in the company of madmen. But it still seemed like a dream, a surreal moment that had not quite fixed itself into reality. Jorah had not had a moment yet process the utterly impossible idea that this beautiful, just, and courageous woman...loved _him_.

He broke their gaze, settling his sights to his feet. It was easier to speak this way — Jorah feared to see her face turn sour, in jest or in disgust of his meagre heart. Oh, he knew well that his Queen would do no such thing, and yet, he had only lived to expect it.

"It's..._because _I love you that I—"

"Ser Jorah Mormont, you seem to be agreeing with this world that is determined to keep us apart."

"N-no, Your Grace!"

"Then it is settled; you will, as you always have, remain by my side."

There really wasn't much room left to argue. Jorah finally raised his head to look at his Queen; she had once said he was his strength, but did she know his strength was all for her?

"And what of Gryves? If he doesn't calm? You cannot risk you people on your faith in me."

"I would risk my life on my faith in you, Jorah," Dany sighed, brow creasing a little. She knew he was right, that much was clear. "But...what do you suggest? I cannot leave you here. I _will not _leave you here. Gryves goes where you go."

Jorah thought for a moment, mind casting back to the carvings on the wall. The binding of shadow and flame, the dragonglass and ruby. There had to be something there they could use, like the Valyerians of old, to bring Gryves to heel if need be. The dragonglass was not a problem. But where would they find a choker like the Red Woman's? Melisandre was of Asshai, a land far and away from where they currently were. Such a journey would take months. They barely had days to spare, between monitoring their split army and, of course, Tyrion still held prisoner within the Red Keep. Jorah had no doubt that Daenerys' Hand would not be put to death; no, Cersei knew her brother too well for that. She knew what information lay within his mind, and with first hand experience, Jorah feared Qyburn could peel it from Tyrion piece by piece.

Jorah's faith in Daenerys was one thing, but risking a _dragon's _unkempt wrath was quite another. But he had no other choice. His sigh of defeat was drowned out by the earth-shuddering crash of Drogon landing behind his Queen, summoned silently to her side. The silver-haired woman looked with some sadness towards the creature, and Jorah could tell her mind was still within the ruins where all her fears remained.

Out here in the open, she did not give them voice, and Jorah did not wish to prise her mask away from her here.

* * *

Before long, Drogon brought the pair to the skies once more, the wind quickly becoming a gale that demanded the breath out of Jorah's lungs and the warmth from his skin as it howled by. The latter he did not mind so much, as a sickly heat had clung to him ever since his revival. But the lack of control, the need to expend effort to drag air in enough to breathe, that would be a sensation he never could acclimatise to.

He was not the blood of the dragon. He was the blood of the bear, and leaving the earth a dizzy distance below him was not an enjoyable sensation. But he could not deny the staggering view of the land beneath them, sprawling out in mountains and farmland and rivers alike. The speed of dragonflight was next to none as well.

But Jorah was quite sure he would be redoubling his efforts to calm his horse enough to ride upon the ground next time.

By the time they arrived back at Stoney Sept, the sun had not only set but had begun to rise on another day. Exhausted and travel-weary, the Queen and her knight disembarked from the black dragon, thankful for the small sense of rest that greeted them in the warm Sept.

"I need to send a raven to Missandei," Daenerys thought aloud to her advisor as they walked into the Sept and though the stone halls. "The last she heard was of your would-be execution. No doubt she has kept my forces in Dragonstone ready for my command, but the more information we can get to her on our situation, the better."

"And from them to us," Jorah agreed, remaining standing with his hands behind his back, but darting one, slightly-longing look to the armchair by the fireplace lining the wall of the room they had settled into. It was but for a split second before he looked away, focusing on the task at hand: duty first, after all, no matter how fatigued he was.

Somehow, though he had long since mastered the art of hiding his emotions, Daenerys seemed to pick up on his thoughts with a slight jolt of her head to the side, as if spotting something moving in the corner of the room. Half-frowning in confusion, half-smirking, she turned to look at her bear-knight standing resolutely by the door.

"You...must be exhausted," she offered to the weary knight. "And no doubt longing for more comfortable clothes."

She nodded at the make-do garments they'd fashioned after Gryves' arrival. "Go and rest, Ser Jorah. I will wake you once the ravens are sent to Harrenhal and Dragonstone, and I need to find Jon and speak with him. I'm hoping someone will have heard news from King's Landing — no doubt the throttled supply routes will make Cersei move soon, but I dislike the idea that the people of King's Landing may be suffering her wrath for it. The sooner we can end this, the better."

* * *

Jorah had greatfully settled down on the soft bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow. Hardly an hour had passed, however, before the knight was awoken to the sound of Drogon's furious screech and roar outside the sept and the horrid sensation of his skin crawling, something stirring beneath it. His blood coursed quickly, blazing around his body and bringing a sudden and terrible rage into his heart.

The creature seldom made such sounds merely for show, nor did Jorah often feel such fury without cause; he was up an on his feet in a heartbeat. Finding some suitable clothes laid on the wooden stool at the foot of the bed, (it has seemed the tailor had already visited the Sept during their absence and left clothes as a gift for the recently-befriended Queen and her knight), he quickly dressed, donned his sword and half-ran outside to address the commotion, trying to ignore the now-painful feeling of skin tearing across his back and down his arms.

The cold air whipped him brutally to being fully-awake, but it was pleasant enough against the warm dragonscale patches choking the side of his face and neck. Outside the sept, the great dragon reared in fury, a fury matched by the Dragon Queen standing before Drogon.

Dressed in a dark-grey furred coat slashed through with lightning-cobalt, hair loosely braided against the winter winds, Daenerys turned as Jorah's boots crunched in the snow near her. Her thunderous expression softened somewhat for his arrival.

"Apologies for waking you, but I fear I would have had to wake you myself anyway," she admitted, turning again to Drogon. The dragon still seemed angered, though he was settling a little at Daenerys' soothing. "Rhaegal is missing. I had thought he was hunting, but Drogon cannot find him nearby. Jon Snow is missing too...but his horse is still in the stable."

With her rage reigned in, Jorah's own strange anger subsided. Along with it, the adrenaline abandoned him to deal with the now all-over ache of new scales having erupted over his flesh. The knight swayed a little as the pulse of raw discomfort nearly brought him to one knee, his mind a dizzying mix of his own confusion and Gryves' grumbling snarl. The silver dragon felt Daenerys' rage as though it were his own, and it reflected like a mirror onto Jorah.

Despite his best efforts to hide his discomfort, it was not lost in the eyes of the Silver Queen. A light frown creased her forehead as she moved, inquisitive and cautious, towards him.

"Ser Jorah? Are you alright?"

A tense smile, teeth grinding behind barely-curled lips, and the knight straightened up.

"Woke up with a start, Your Grace."

From the sidewards glance as she turned away, Daenerys didn't quite believe that was all that troubled him.

"Are you able to travel? We must head to Dragonstone — Jon spoke of going there on Rhaegal before I departed. I've been away some time...perhaps he grew concerned."

Was she trying to talk herself down from her anger towards Jon? An echo of her love softening the blade of her fury? The thought was a strange one, one that drew admiration and a pang of bitter jealousy. He brushed the latter aside — there was no place for that here. Still, his stirring irritation seemed well-founded, that the man would take off on Rhaegal's back as though the dragon was his.

"At your command, Khaleesi."

The sound of snow squeaking underfoot turned their attention in unison to a newcomer. A small woman with black hair shot through with bolts of silver and white was traipsing through the slowly-receding snow carrying a large, wrapped parcel. Jorah quickly move to help her, relieving her of the burden and letting her straighten up.

"Ah, thank you; that's the clothes Her Grace reque-eh!" The woman's sentence cut off with a sharp screech as she raised her head and saw Drogon peering at her, a curious grumble from his fanged mouth rumbling the air. All colour drained from her face, but she seemed more at ease as Daenerys moved and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You're quite safe, don't worry. Drogon won't harm you," she assured her, though the sight of the fearsome creature was quite something for her words to contend with. The brave old lady nodded though, gesturing with a shaking hand to the parcel Jorah now held. Luckily, with her eyes fixed on the spectacle of Drogon, she hadn't noticed Jorah's own inhuman appearance.

"S-some more clothes, Your Grace, a-as you asked. I didn't have much at such short notice mind," she repeated. Daenerys smiled, bowed her head a little to the tailor, and placed a black-leather coin pouch in her hand.

"And much appreciated. They will serve us well in our journey north."

"Oh, are you heading after that other fellow?" The old lady asked, still eyeing Drogon warily. "He shot off not a day or two ago on a-a-a dragon. Smaller'un that one."

She gave a nod to Drogon. "He seemed quite ruffled, Your Grace. I told him, I said '_Don't you go taking that nice lady's dragons, she's been nothing but lovely to us here_' but off he went. Said he needed to gather his men and get back to Winterfell as quick as he could. I says to him, I says '_don't you go getting involved between the Starks and the Lannisters, you'll get yourself killed_', but he didn't listen."

_Winterfell? _Jorah's mind quickly brought together what little they had — the Lannister Royal Army had set upon Winterfell? With the Golden Company still very much siding with the current Queen, she would certainly have the forces to spare to sail up the White Knife towards the Northern stronghold. But how could she risk such a move, knowing a fragment of her fleet had been burned away at Dragonstone, her enemies clearly positioned in the middle of the ocean-bound route between King's Landing and Winterfell?

Going on-foot would have taken two weeks, give or take...and with Daenerys' Dothraki fighters at Harrenhal, the route to King's Landing was cut-off to anyone other than madmen willing to meet such fighters on an open field. There's no way they would have arrived yet.

_What am I failing to see? _

"What do you mean, '_between the Starks and the Lannisters_'?" Dany asked, eyes widening. "What has happened?"

"Well, they've never liked each other much, have they? And word is, Queen Cersei—" The old woman took a moment to spit upon the ground before continuing, "—has been pacing in her cage 'cause of the North. Got all the supply lines cut off from King's Landing, they have, and the supplies were low 'cause of the long winter anyway. The city folk aren't happy, and unhappy people voice it. They want to see their queen _doing _something about it. So, she's gathered in this army from Essos, apparently they've got _Elly-funts_ or something, I don't know. Queen's mad if she thinks she can take Winterfell, but it'd bring the Starks scurrying home right quick it would. Noble houses — all they care about is home, sworn houses, and honour. Doesn't do much for us though...b-begging your pardon, Your Grace," she added quickly, as though noticing her running mouth might have offended Daenerys.

Daenerys, however, did not appear to hear the accidental slip. Her eyes were darting this way and that, as though seeing the different routes from Cersei's eyes.

"Cersei knows we have moved from Winterfell; she knew it as soon as the supply lines locked down. She knows my forces are primarily Northmen...driving them home would leave me open...but how? None of her forces could get past Dragonstone or Harrenhal without risking battle, but no word of an attempt by Cersei to head north has come from my forces there."

She turned to Jorah, seeking answers from her advisor. He himself was lost in thought.

_King's Landing...her army...the Golden Company...sworn houses…_

_...Sworn houses. _

How could they have been so blind? Jorah felt his skin chill with a clammy grip, jaw slackening in shock.

_Queen_ Cersei had a Royal Army and the Golden Company in King's Landing.

Cersei _Lannister _had a swathe of sworn houses at her beck and call.

Houses Banefort, Kenning, Clegane, Lefford, and Westerling, to name only those Jorah knew of. And all of them held their houses to the east, beyond the Golden Tooth. They didn't need to get past Harrenhal — they were already there. Sailing north from Kayce to the Saltspear would bring the Lannister-sworn outside of Winterfell, with only the scattering of forces left on the Iron Island to stop them. The Greyjoys were near-extinct, with the majority having come with them from Winterfell to Dragonstone.

With the Northmen lured home by such an attack, the forces of Harrenhal and Dragonstone would be hopelessly dwindled; a few Dothraki warriors alone in Harrenhal, and a reduced number of Unsullied at Dragonstone and Stoney Sept.

"Anvil and hammer," Jorah said gravely. "Attacking the North could be a suicide mission, but Cersei is the type to march men to their deaths as bait for a greater purpose. She's called in her sworn houses to the east, Your Grace. It'll be they who have struck Winterfell, not the Royal Army. The Royal Amry will be moving to—"

Daenerys' face paled.

"Dragonstone and Harrenhal."

Immediately the Dragon Queen moved to set upon Drogon, bringing Jorah darting forward. He could feel scales shifting beneath his skin, spines piercing along the back of his neck; it was quite impossible for his Queen to completely hide her anger and fear when it rose now, for it beckoned Gryves' concern.

"K-Khaleesi, wait," he stammered, feeling a tooth loosening as a sharper one began to push painfully beneath from his gums. "Harrenhal, Dragonstone, Winterfell...whichever you choose, the other two are left woefully under-equipped to fight. Many of the Northern forces will still be travelling on horseback, neither at Winterfell nor at their stations. All three keeps are vulnerable without you. All _four_, including here."

Daenerys stopped, a hand on Drogon, almost ready to climb to his back. Her whole body was rigid, tense with contained fury at the situation.

"Whichever I pick, the others will fall. She knows this. Cersei _knows _I will not sacrifice live for power as she does." Her amethyst eyes shot daggers to Jorah, a bladed glower he knew was not for him, but for the lioness prowling the Red Keep. "I cannot save them all. But I will do as I always have: I will save whoever I possibly can, in any way I can."

With that, she moved her hand to Drogon's snout, coaxing the huge dragon down to hear her say: "Please...head to Dragonstone. Our family is threatened. Will you fight for them?"

The dragon did not need asking twice. With a screech of fury, Drogon unfurled his wings, preparing to take off with Daenerys' parting words: "Keep high to the clouds; do not let the fleet see you over open water! Remember this!"

With that, Drogon was up and away, the beating of his wings throwing up dust and debris and making the poor tailor shriek and cover her face with her arms. Without thinking, Jorah went to help her. As soon as she caught sight of his disfigured appearance, she took off running back to the town, apparently reaching her limit of ignoring her fear.

"We'll never reach Harrenhal in time on horseback, much less Winterfell," Jorah noted, watching after the poor woman as she fled. "You...you mean to use Gryves."

Daenerys faced him, tears of fury sparkling like lightning in her eyes.

"I still have to choose: my people in Harrenhal, who have supported me from the dust up to greatness...or my people in Winterfell, who fear me and loathe to _be_ my people."

"Jon has Rhaegal...he may yet turn the tide in Winterfell."

Daenerys shook her head.

"No...I know well the rage and temptation of having a dragon before Cersei's cruelty. Jon has always been led by his heart; it's why he makes a good war commander," she admitted. "But I fear that same passion to fight for the living teeters on the edge of bloodlust towards his enemies. I fear he is ill-used to the destruction a dragon can wage under a rage-blinded rider."

_He's a Targaryen...where did the coin land for him...and what tragedy could turn that coin over? _Jorah thought to himself.

The choice was killing her, that much was clear in Daenerys' eyes.

"Khaleesi...whatever you choose, I will support you. If you need Gryves...then I will obey you. As I always have." Jorah spoke in earnest, for there was no way for her to choose where Cersei did not win in some way.

After a long moment, Daenerys' eyes came to focus, locking on Jorah's own.

"We head to Winterfell. They need our help. Of the two, my Dothraki have the better chance of winning — the open field is their domain. And of our three outposts, Stoney Sept has its own small force to protect it, alongside my Unsullied. It is the best fortified of the three. Winterfell is in disrepair and lacking an army."

_She wants me to assure her. She wants me to assure her this is the right choice. Is there one? _Jorah though bitterly to himself, his own anger to Cersei's cruelty mixing with the echo of Daenerys' own.

"Agreed. Either way, we must leave here before the Royal Army arrives. She means to trap you, Your Grace."

The Dragon Queen walked towards him, and for a moment, a wave of guilt crossed her features as she reached out to him, placing a hand against his cheek even as he felt scales shredding through his skin violently, bones snapping and bringing him gasping to his knees, blood coating his mouth as sharpened teeth cracked through his own. She knelt with him, holding him as long as she could as the man twisted and transformed, silver scales stained burnt-red in the snow. She held him until a dragon's skull rested against her instead, snarling and huffing in impatience.

Gryves shook himself down, scales glittering and sparking like a storm as they moved, pinning Daenerys beneath a brilliant blue gaze.

The Silver Queen rose to her feet, meeting the silver dragon's eyes.

"Gryves. Will you fight for me? Against those who have hurt you so?" She asked, laying a hand on his nose without fear.

The dragon considered her words for a moment, a thunder-roll of a growl deep within his chest…

...then, he bowed low that the Queen could climb onto his back. For now, at least, the wild dragon submitted.

_To Winterfell_...


	16. Chapter 16

_**CHAPTER 16 **_

_**-Daenerys-**_

The silver dragon reared before Daenerys, and though she felt the absence of her knight almost immediately, she couldn't deny the happiness in her heart when Gryves hunched low and allowed her to climb on his back. Finding a grip upon silver scales and cyan spines, she clambered onto his back, holding on tight as he straightened up once more. With a screech, the dragon unfurled his wings, grey membrane stretching between silver scales. The claws atop his wings were much larger than Drogon or Rhaegal's, and Dany wondered if these long claws were Gryves' weapon to replace his apparent inability to breathe fire. A single swipe could tear an army to ribbons and cleave stone asunder.

Within a few wingbeats the pair were airborne, soaring above Stoney Sept and into the clouds. Daenerys looked down, fearful to see the Royal Army advancing on the little town — they had been cautiously welcoming, and even if they had not welcomed her at all, Daenerys would loathe to see them fall to Cersei's blades through no sin other than her presence in their homes. She could not see any such assault impending yet, though the small town quickly became a shrinking dot in the distance.

Gryves was much smaller than Drogon, but all the faster for it. He tore like a thunderbolt through the clouds, making swift work of their journey. Dany was thankful for this. The sooner they reached Winterfell, the better. She had an awful feeling twisting in her gut, be it her familiarity with Jon or her bond to Rhaegal, but it felt bitter and unpleasant. She feared the same anger that threatened to spill from her heart that day in King's Landing as she watched the people cheer for Jorah's execution could well rise in Jon's heart against those sent to kill the Northmen who had saved their lives. Daenerys knew well that revenge was the coy twin of justice, and it could turn even the most righteous of hearts in the heat of anger.

And she knew well the pain it left in its wake forevermore…

* * *

By the swift wings of Gryves, the pair reached Winterfell as the night fell upon them. But the darkness only served to show the terrors afoot upon the ancient castle. The old stones, already in horrific disrepair from the recent battle against the Night King, were aglow with a brilliant green light. Wildfire tore across the surface of the castle walls, burning and catching everything in its path — Cersei seemed determined to show that she was stronger than the Dragon Queen in every way.

Above the screaming cacophony of terrible green fire and burning armies, the sage-scaled Rhaegal soared. He loosed a plume of flames upon the Lannister-sworn army, heedless of the caches of wildfire being carried to the castle, sending fires of ruby and emerald twisting and snapping into the skies.

Daenerys urged Gryves upwards towards her other dragon. Sure enough, Rhaegal's rider did not greet her, eyes firmly fixed on the ground below. The dancing firelight showed the tear-paths down Jon's face, lips pulled back in barely-restrained anger.

"Jon!" Daenerys called, bringing Gryves to a halt in the air above Rhaegal. The two dragons hissed and snapped, growling and rearing in confusion of each other as newcomers, but did not move to harm. "Jon, _stop_, it's too dangerous! There's too much wildfire! You'll risk everyone, not just Lannister soldiers!"

Jon did not move to look at Daenerys, eyes still pinned on the armies below. But his voice reached her, husky and hoarse with grief and frustration.

"She's killed her, Dany," he shouted over the sounds of flames and war below. "It wasn't enough to betray us. She's-she's burned my sister alive! In our home! Cersei betrayed us, but we saved her and her people anyway. We saved their lives, but they just want to save that gods-forsaken throne!"

Finally, he looked up at Daenerys. His face was contorted in pain, of anguish for his loss and a finally-released fury at the world that seemed so blind to what was so obvious to him: that life was far more precious than power. In his eyes Dany could see all of his confusion, so pure and so just — confusion of corruption. "People died for them, and _this_ is how they repay us? They come to our home before the blood's even washed away and slaughter who's left? House Lannister is no better than the White Walkers — they're a threat to the living, let alone the bloody throne!"

Dany's face fell as fear washed over her. The world fought for power, but Jon Snow fought for the living. In some ways, it made him naive, too naive for this tainted world. In some ways, it made him righteous, a hero that ill-fitted the darkness around him. She knew well the feelings tearing at his heart now, of frustration at trust and chances thrown to the ground. The fury at having to rein in one's own power for the greater good, only to be mocked. The temptation to unleash that very power and force people down what she believed, what she _knew _to be the right path, out of sheer rage-driven impatience of their apparent inability to see the obvious, let alone choose it for themselves.

Jon Snow was standing on the same edge Daenerys had in King's Landing, watching the innocent people she'd hoped to save show all their worst facets to her, chanting and cheering for death and injustice before a false queen. He was looking into the abyss swirling with the worst of humanity and wondering if it was even worth saving the sliver of _good _amongst it after all. It had taken such courage and faith in her destiny to stay upon her difficult, yet ultimately right path that day, rather than lashing out at the cruelty of the world. It had been tempting to burn all the darkness away and claim the world did not deserve to be saved.

"Jon," Dany's voice wanted to tremble, but her heart kept it steady. "...You're right. It's cruel, it's unjust...but please don't do this. The burden is far heavier than you can imagine. The men below have wronged us all, but they are loyal soldiers. They are loyal to their queen, but not in the way my people are loyal to me.

"The men before you are loyal to Cersei, but they do not love her. Their loyalty is of fear — fear for their families, fear of being executed for treason if they do not obey. It's barely enough loyalty to call them to arms, but it's more than enough fear to. If we respond like her...if we show them nothing but rage and demands," a flash of dragonfire, the Tarly men burning in her mind's eye, "...then they will not put their faith in us. They will only think we're no different to Cersei. Please, Jon...don't let her manipulate you. Our mercy is a strength, not a weakness. If you set them all to the flame, the fear of you will spread like a disease."

Headstrong he may be, but ruthless he was not. Dany had to believe Jon would listen, but she could not pull him back from this edge. It had to be his choice. He had to step back from that precipice that she herself had stumbled over, and was holding on the edge for dear life, darkness snapping at her feet and threatening to claim her heart.

It was as Jorah had said. A blade in the hand makes the beast stir. Dany realised now that power to command inevitably made darkness stir, even in the most righteous of people. The Iron Throne was the epitome of perfect power, drawing the darkest parts of every heart that sat upon it — for the first time, the question came to her mind: did such a thing have any place in her new world?

She could see the tension in Jon's face, see the agony in his eyes, but...eventually, it gave way to utter _despair_. His shoulders slumped for a moment, a defeat only toward the Dragon Queen's words, before he drew Rhaegal around to fly toward a nearby hillock away from the army and their stashes of wildfire. Daenerys felt her heart lighten for his actions, watching from the sky as the other Targaryen dismounted and drew his sword, joining his thin forces on the ground and charging at the Lannister army, blade chosen above fire, control over fury.

But Daenerys had lingered a moment too long: shots fired and the song of chains rang through the air. She whirled around, accompanied by a screech from Gryves as Scorpion bolts soared wildly overhead.

_Their aim's getting worse…_ she thought to herself, about to urge Gryves to the ground when she realised: the bolts had not missed their mark. Instead of senselessly aiming for the impervious larger target of the dragon, or the impossibly small target of the rider, it seemed Cersei had learned her lessons quickly. The bolts were threaded into thick chains; as the bolts themselves buried into the ground, the chains tightened and yanked downwards, bringing Gryves down with them and pinning him to the ground, trapped beneath a criss-cross of metal.

The dragon writhed and wailed, jaws snapping but unable to reach the chains, clawed wings unable to move. Daenerys, having been knocked from her mount, landed heavily in the powder snow nearby. Though the snow cushioned her fall, she still felt a tang of metal upon her tongue, the air rushing from her lungs.

Scrambling to her feet, she nearly made towards Gryves, already trying to think of ways to save him, but he was gone. The chains slumped to the snow, with no captive within them.

_Jorah…_

Dany couldn't run forward, noting the Lannister soldiers beginning to walk tentatively forward, wondering how in Seven Hells they had managed to misplace a _dragon _in the blink of an eye. They were, for the moment of shock, ignoring her. She would not waste this opportunity her knight had given her, and remained as faithful in his uncanny ability to always return to her side, just as he was ever faithful in her.

Turning, she darted into the blazing keep of the castle. Fire had never frightened her, but this ungodly pyromancer's concoction certainly worried her. She had no idea whether or not this unnatural flame could harm her where natural fires had not.

The courtyard was strewn with fallen soldiers, charred or otherwise, some still burning emerald green, others bleached to the bones from dragonfire.

_Is Sansa among them? _Daenerys' heart grew heavy — the two had never seen eye-to-eye, but though they had locked horns on more than one occasion, she could not deny she felt a sense of respect for the Stark. Sansa had kindled herself in a cruel world and created a quiet revenge. A perfect revenge, one that proved to the world around her that they were all so _very _wrong to underestimate and try to use her. How could Daenerys not admire this of her?

Part of her found it difficult to think that someone like the Lady of Winterfell would fall to one such as Cersei, which is why her wet brought her to the smouldering castle ruins. Even with minutes to spare, surely the sharp-minded woman had orchestrated something to defend her and her people.

The thought came to mind as she recalled the war that had waged upon this land weeks prior, and it sent Daenerys running for the ironwood door near the broken keep. The safest place in Winterfell; would Sansa not have sent her people below at the first sign of Lannister troops, knowing full well they did not have the forces spare to meet them head-on in battle? It was a possibility, but one that was rapidly diminishing. Wildfire tore all around her, the vile substance crackling and breaking stone and burning atop of the snow. It would only be so long before the hungry fires found the crypts beneath the castle too.

Purple eyes scanned and darted quickly across the area, catching sight of strangely blue-tinted flames — the ironwood door leading to the crypts below had already caught fire, its unusual material burning blue.

Dany darted forward despite the fire growing, straining her ears above the roar of flames for any sign of life below. No, even without a sign, she had to take the chance. Without a thought of harm to herself, the silver-haired woman stooped over the burning door, plunging her hands into the fire and grabbing the searingly-hot iron handle.

Blue and green fire surged up her arms, immediately devouring the furs of her coat sleeves. She heaved, pulling with all of her might even as her feet slipped and skidded in the snow. She could feel the wildfire piercing her skin, but it seemed unable to catch her flesh alight. Unlike other flames she had encountered though, wildfire did not fill her with any sense of strength. Instead, the substance seemed to feast upon the magic in her blood, drawing it and tapping her strength for its own fuel. Her skin prickled against the impossible heat — was this what it felt like to burn?

With a yell of defiance, Daenerys summoned every last dredge of her strength to pull against the door. Finally, with one last snarling shout from the Dragon Queen, the door gave way, revealing fearful faces far below backing away from the suddenly-open door.

Daenerys was thrown backwards into the snow, but she didn't have time to worry. She shirked off her coat, casting the now-inferno of a garment away and hissing against the green embers left behind on her skin, pittering out painfully slowly.

Returning to the doorway, framed in flames, Daenerys held out her hand.

"If you stay down there, you'll die," she said; she didn't have time to worry whether these people loved her or hated her or anything in between. They were her people, and she would protect them. "Please...come with me!"

The crowd didn't move, eyeing the door wearily. Suddenly, the crowd parted, revealing the red-haired Lady of Winterfell. Sharp eyes pierced through the flames to Daenerys. No love, no hatred, simply _nothing _in her gaze in concern to the Targaryen. Dany did not look away — Sansa would not let her people burn. This she knew.

"Follow her. Do not let the wildfire touch you," Sansa commanded swiftly. One by one, people carefully clambered through the hellhole of fire and out into the night air burning around them. Those that were unlucky enough to catch the fire on their clothing shrieked and ran forward, the fires catching rapidly and making short work of them. Wails, tears, fear laid thick in the air, but the people of the North bravely faced the flames — flames which were rapidly filling the crypt below, seeping in from all hidden corners of the underground labyrinth. Still, Sansa did not move. She remained standing as still as the statues that burned around her, waiting for the last of her people to find safety before she sought it herself.

Dany extended a hand out through the doorframe towards her, the fires threatening to swallow the exit.

"Sansa!"

With one last look behind her, the Lady of Winterfell unclasped her thick cloak, letting the thick but cumbersome garment fall to the ground at her ankles. Then, with alarming swiftness, she darted up the stairs of the crypt and leapt through the flames, ignoring Dany's hand and landing in the snow. Steel blue eyes darted sidewards, spotting a flicker of emerald light glittering in her long, bronze-hued tresses. Without hesitation, Lady Stark straightened, grabbing the length of her hair from over her shoulder and unsheathing a dagger from her belt with her free hand. She drew the blade across her hair, then cast the shorn length to the snow.

The tiny green spark quickly blossomed, the emerald flower of fire enveloping the cut away auburn hair, then guttering out into darkness.

Daenerys realised she had been watching the whole event unfold while Sansa's own icy gaze remained trained on her.

"Outside of the castle, not far from here, there's a hillock," Dany instructed. "Rhaegal is there. Seek your shelter with him."

"You want me to led my people to a _dragon_?" Sansa asked, no venom in her voice but mockery thick upon her tone.

"If you stay here, you'll burn to death. If all you fear of dragons comes true, you'll burn to death," Daenerys countered back, finding little patience left in her weary body. "If you can trust the woman who freed you from a burning crypt — you'll find no better guardian against blades and fire than a _dragon._"

Sansa did not reply, but for once, her mask slipped a little as footsteps hurrying away broke the silent standoff of wolf and dragon. She turned to see some of the Northmen and women rushing away, looking for a path to sneak out of the castle grounds and head to the spot Daenerys had spoke of. Whirling back to look at Daenerys, Sansa looked her up and down, though no anger came to her voice as she conceded.

"Very well. Head for Rhaegal. Go!" She commanded, ushering the group to follow her through the castle grounds, no doubt using hidden paths that Sansa and her siblings knew like the backs of their hands to outwit the Lannister-sworn soldiers on their way.

Daenerys felt the muscles in her shoulders loosen a little, relief flooding over her. Rhaegal would shield them, and, if need be, carry them away into the sky and away from the wildfire-hell.

She half-staggered through what little was left of the snow underfoot, the world around her more fire than anything else. Dany remembered bitterly when fire had felt like power, like an ally...had Cersei taken this from her too? The wildfire did not burn her, but _gods_, it drained her like a ravenous leech.

As she limped through the snow, she wondered in a near-dreamlike delusion of exhaustion whether Jorah had escaped. She wondered if Jon had cut down the army of men in rage, whether the rest had broken and surrendered.

Footsteps came slower and slower, the horrid, sickly heat of wildfire coaxing every last fibre of her strength away..._I cannot die here…_

_Fire cannot kill a dragon…_

Dany stopped. She let her head fall back, looking up to the skies, smoke prickling tears from her eyes. Perhaps it was her half-delirious state, but upon looking to the heavens above, the sprawling sky she had come to adore so much upon the wings of dragons...Daenerys looked at the vast, beautiful night sky and thought a single word: _home. _

She'd always dreamt of home. She'd dreamt of stone castles, of metal thrones, of towers, red doors, ah, but none had truly resonated in her heart as _home_. She had seen the truth of what a home really meant once, when she asked her knight what he prayed for. A glimmer of memory in his clear blue eyes, of sadness and yearning.

Daenerys wondered if that same glimmer danced in her eyes as she looked at the sky now. The sky was her home, but she had only realised in this moment. In this moment when Daenerys felt she would die among the leeching, dark fires of men…

The heat pulsed once more, causing her to sway. Another step..._survive_, she demanded of herself. Another step...another…

_Home…_

Something struck her shoulder then, a light tap that threatened to unbalance the exhausted woman. Then again, and again, in her hair, on her shoulders, her feet, her arms. Looking up, Daenerys felt rain wash over her soot-marred face. Cool, clear rain poured all around her as the skies opened, weeping down over dragonfire and wildfire. The rain had no hope of extinguishing either, but it folded the flames down to a dull roar, forcing a retreat in both if not a full surrender to the heavens.

The clouds churned above, rolling thunder crumbling the air. Daenerys felt her eyes close, but this time, it was not in fatigue. This time, she felt strength ebbing back into her limbs, a spark lighting in her heart.

She was Daenerys Stormborn. Blood of dragons and born of lightning. The world would have to muster more darkness than this to snuff out the light within her.

The thunder above melded with a roar that shook the flaming stones around the woman then. Silhouetted against dark clouds and brilliant bolts of lightning, Gryves tore through the storm and landed before her, wings crushing debris as he hit the ground. Daenerys, rain-soaked and ragged, felt her lips pull back into a broad smile, beaming at the silver-scaled dragon.

"Jor—Gryves!" Of course he was at her side. Did he not always find his way here?

Quickly, she climbed onto the dragon, slipping a little on the rain-coated scales and spines. He clambered out of the castle, scaling the outer wall so that Dany could see over it to the remnants of the Lannister-sworn army below.

Jon and the few Winterfell forces had proven the mettle of the North against the half-hearted loyalty of the Lannisters and their sworn houses. Swords had clattered to the ground, swathes of men unwilling to risk anything further in the face of two dragons. No doubt they had only come here at all on the promise there would be no dragons, and if they were, that Qyburn's weapon was assured. Lies to feed the flimsy loyalty.

Daenerys felt Gryves growl, not in threat, but more..._to _her.

"Houses Baneford and Kenning; Clegane, Lefford, Westerling. Your oaths to House Lannister beget loyalty. Oaths that should not be broken," Daenerys declared to the armies beneath the wall. "But your oaths _have _been broken. You swore to serve House Lannister, and in return for what? In return for protection and peace. In return for respect and leadership. In return for justice. Cersei Lannister had given you _nothing _for your loyalty. She has broken the oaths between you — her House's protection sees you marching against dragons. Her House's promise of peace sees you bringing wildfire to the doors of innocents. Her respect in exchange for your swords is to leave you fighting without a single Lannister risking their lives along with you. Her leadership comes a thousand leagues from danger, and her justice is that your deaths will buy her a little more time with a crown on her head. This Lannister's debt are _long _overdue to you.

"But look around you! Stark lords and ladies, fighting alongside their sworn houses! A Targaryen princess taking up arms to protect the houses she asks trust from. Oaths are not chains of slavery: they are to be honoured by both the giver and receiver. You have not been honoured — and in the wake of your broken oaths, I would not insult you to ask you trust me with another in its place. Instead, you have _my _oath: I will tear Cersei Lannister from her throne and the Houses who gave so much to her, in loyalty and in blood, will decide what justice should be dealt to such an oathbreaker. I will do this, whether you bend the knee to me upon this field or not."

A wave of disbelief, of suspicion, rolled across both the Lannister's sworn houses and the Northmen. Still, Daenerys continued without faltering: "Those that choose to follow me will have the glory of bringing the Oathbreaker Queen before their Houses to face the judgment of the people she failed to serve. Those that refuse...know that you will leave this battlefield, unharmed and unfollowed. You may leave, bring your loyalty to Cersei's feet...and tell her…"

She looked across at the people of the North, battle-weary, wounded, huddled by Rhaegal's wings. The Dragon Queen inhaled, roaring to the Lannister-sworn forces: "_**The North remembers!**_"

Her call was met with a rallying cry of the Northern forces. Swords crashed against shields, spears hailed skyward, steel armour clattered as cheers rung out. Line by line, the sworn Houses under Lannister rule bent to one knee before Daenerys. Though some turned and marched away in retreat, many more remained not in surrender or betrayal, but upon the path to the new world.


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: This chapter is also from Dany's POV because Chapter 16 and 17 were originally one chapter. But it was rather too long at 9,000+ words!**

* * *

**CHAPTER**_** 17**_

_**-Daenerys-**_

It was many hours before the wildfires burned themselves out, leaving the castle of Winterfell a charred shell of its former self. But soon, those that could move began to filter back into the castle grounds, already working on moving away debris and making repairs enough for the building to at least shelter them for the night.

Daenerys stood among this whirling motion of people, watching as they began to rebuild once more. She had dismounted from the silver dragon, and the creature had come to the end of its patience and flown away, despite her protests. Gryves certainly had a mind of his own, separate from Jorah, and the bear knight's influence only stretched so far when it came to the new dragon.

A new dragon which quickly brought Sansa and Jon to Daenerys, concern in the Lady of Winterfell's eyes, and something of awe in Jon's. He'd been so wrapped up in his fury he hadn't considered the fact Dany was on a different dragon when she confronted him in the sky over the battle. Now, with that lens cleared, he watched the silver-hued creature soaring away in the distance.

"Where've you been hiding him?" Jon asked, a smile curling his lip even as Sansa's sharp, sidewards look brought him back down to earth.

"That dragon didn't come with you from across the sea," Sansa said, turning from her kin to fix Daenerys under her scrutiny. "Where did it come from?"

Daenerys felt her jaw tense, teeth set in irritation of Sansa's address of Gryves.

"_He _came from the same place every dragon alive today came from — he rose from fire by my hand. Are you truly so alarmed that the Mother of Dragons is capable of this?"

Sansa did not reply then, her unwavering mask and unblinking eyes almost painted on like warnings on butterfly wings. Daenerys wondered how many threads whirled in the other woman's mind, weaving out across an endless patience to create a tapestry of Sansa's own design.

"Can you control it? It flew away despite your call. If there is a wild dragon loose in the North, we will have to send knights after it."

Dany's immediate reaction was anger, but she caught herself. Sansa was many things, and perhaps blunt and cold, but needlessly cruel was not one of those things. Her words were utterly reasonable in the wake of a viable threat to her people.

"No! No...he's not wild, just...a little—weary. You have my word Gryves will not harm your people," Daenerys assured her, trying her best to remain kind in tone for the sake of her dragon and her knight's safety.

"And our livestock?"

"That...I cannot promise. But I will recompense you whatever he hunts down of your livestock. I swear it. Leave him be, and he will leave you be."

She received no word of promise — had she truly expected one, Dany thought to herself, — before the auburn-haired woman turned and walked away, heading into the castle ground and leaving Jon and Daenerys in her wake. In truth, the Dragon Queen would have been shocked if the Lady of Winterfell would verbally agree to allow a dragon to roam free in her lands on such a flimsy promise. She had barely acquiesced to Drogon and Rhaegal's presence, despite seeing their close bond with Daenerys.

"Dany, I...I'm sorry."

Jon's voice brought Daenerys back from her concerns. She turned to face Jon, face set stern and without sympathy for the moment.

"For what? Stealing my dragon? Abandoning your post? Leaving Harrenhal leaderless?"

The man's eyes cast down to the ground, all accusations laid upon his shoulders. Dany dared not let her mind wander to Harrenhal, the post she had been forced to neglect in favour of racing to Winterfell and having Drogon fly to protect Dragonstone. No doubt the khalasar would fight down to the last man, but her heart broke to think they would die alone, cursing her name for leaving them to these blades.

More than anything, she wanted to fly to them now, in hope of fending off the forces set upon them. She could try and fly upon Rhaegal, though she had never done so before. In truth, the stories told that a dragonrider could have but one dragon, though a dragon may know many dragonriders. Then again, stories never seemed to reach her — had she not flown upon Drogon and Gryves both?

_Gryves..._he was still somewhere in the North, and Dany loathed to leave him behind. Jon could hardly hope to bring the quick-tempered silver to calm, but he could indeed ride Rhaegal with some skill now.

"I do not accept your apology, Jon Snow. My forgiveness is earned, not requested," Dany decided, though her voice softened a little. "Your home is safe now. Return to your post. Fly for Harrenhal, and pray my people are yet there for you to join in battle. I will return to Stoney Sept with Gryves — await my raven."

"—Yes, Your Grace."

* * *

Hours spent out in the cold upon horseback had worn away at Dany's nerves. Horseback was horribly slow and uncomfortable to her now. She missed the open sky, the fluid speed, the wind roaring past her, the heat of dragonscales in her hands. Hours out in the snow searching, and yet, no sign of silver and cyan scales.

Bad-tempered, frozen to the bone, and terribly hungry, the Dragon Queen returned to Winterfell as the sun once again made to set. She did her best to place a smiling mask on her face, greeting the brave Northerners still working hard into the night as she made her way up the crumbling stone towers to what had been her room during her last stay in the Stark's ancestral home. Daenerys assumed if the room was yet standing, she would be allowed to use it.

"Your Grace!"

Stopping mid-step on the stone spiral leading to her rooms, Daenerys felt every bone in her tired body protest as she turned to the poor messenger sent to interrupt her. She had tried to mask her disappointment in this, but it seeped through enough for the messenger to stammer: "A thousand pardons, Your Grace, but Lady Stark requests your presence."

Daenerys offered little more than a small smile and a single, sharp nod to send the messenger scurrying away. She could not think of something she would rather do less than to converse with Sansa, while utterly exhausted, hungry, and chilled through her flesh. But, with a deep inhale, Daenerys turned from her path and headed down to the castle proper, avoiding debris on her way to the main hall. The air was heavy with ashes, tickling her nose and mouth with every breath as the grey particles floated through the hall around her.

She found Sansa sitting at the head of the table, swathed in black leathers and furs that made her pale skin look almost like wrought steel in contrast. She did not greet Daenerys save to focus her crystalline stare upon her.

"Did you find your dragon?" Sansa asked, the based concern barely lifting her voice above indifference. There was no reading her, Daenerys realised as she walked forward through the hall towards the head table. Sansa Stark had myriad masks between herself and the world around her, and she wore each with precision and mastery.

"No. But we're not here to discuss my wayward dragon, are we?"

It was hardly a question, and Daenerys sat herself down besides Sansa, as ramrod and stoic as she could be in reflection of the other woman. "Where do we stand, Lady Stark? We are women of fire and ice, standing at each end of the world. We took up arms together in the face of the purest form of death, but now? Will we live out our days only to destroy the ground at each other's feet?"

"I have done nothing to usurp your path—"

The simple lie brought cold laughter to Daenerys' lips, hands folding in her lap.

"You're quite free to deny me, Lady Stark, but do not insult me with games of direct and indirect responsibility. You told Tyrion of Jon's heritage, didn't you? Knowing full well he would tell Varys, and that the Spider would scuttle to a potential puppet-king."

Slowly, Sansa turned to Daenerys...half a smile thawing her face somewhat.

"And did he?"

Fire boiled in her chest, bringing bile and venom from her gut spitting in response to the calm, quiet indifference of Sansa Stark. Her wrath would have been preferable to her stone-carved expression. That her features hardly moved to betray her showed a control that only served to irritate the Dragon Queen — as though everyone around her were mere mummers lurching about on a stage Sansa built herself.

"What you did...could be called treason."

"Then put me to the flames, Your Grace," Sansa replied simply, leaning back in her chair and threading interlocked fingers together to rest her hands on her torso. "As is your will."

Dany bristled. Was this truly what she thought of her? Up until recently, she supposed, why would Sansa think any different? Daenerys, admittedly, had set foot upon Westeros unsteadily. Westeros — the land she had only heard tales of, a home she had never known. A great, complex beast in the darkness that she had to overcome, a beast that was soaked in the blood of so many of her ancestors. It had been easy to speak of reclaiming her birthright in this land, but once the ships set sail, once it all became _real_...the very thought of this unknown land had shook her core just enough to unbalance her strength a little.

In her panic, Daenerys had fallen back onto the very thing that she knew had conquered the monster of Westeros before: her family of yore, like Aegon the Conqueror. She took solace in being his blood, embracing her Targaryen bloodline like never before, despite her understanding being built upon nothing but tales of fire and blood. It was a role that fit awkwardly, like armour forged for someone else; it protected her but hindered her too.

It had been a mistake, Dany realised, as it only served to feed her fear and cause her to overcompensate in her actions. In thinking Westeros ill-understood mercy, she had become ruthless, _too _ruthless. She had not merely brought fear to the doorsteps of these people, but infected them with her own fears.

She had not shown her capacity for mercy to them in equal measure to her strength as she had in Essos. She had not shown them her gentle heart for fear that it would not survive the brutality of Westeros. Instead, Daenerys had brought all the fires and bloodshed this land had seen enough of. She had brought, as Jon put it, more of the same.

She was a queen, she was the one destined to break this land's chains — but she was not infallible, nor was she perfect. Dany knew this, and she knew well the difference in right and wrong. She knew the strength needed to admit one's mistakes and the weakness in ignoring them.

"...I have shown you nothing to think otherwise of me until this day. For that, I am sorry."

This caused Sansa's mask to slip ever so slightly; eyebrows raised, eyes focused upon the silver-haired woman who remained sitting rigid, eyes locking to Sansa's own. "This land is...unlike anything I have encountered. It is colder and crueler, and in my fear, I struck out to assert myself and demand respect of it. I thought I must harden my heart to the cruelty of this game. I sought to reforge it as steel, strong yet still able to feel the warmth of those around me. I confess I may have inadvertently carved my heart from stone instead."

Daenerys spoke of her journey then, of the trials and tribulations, victories and losses she had known in Essos. She spoke of her gentle heart, how she loathed and loved it. Sansa began to speak in response, regaling her own path to Daenerys, the trials and suffering coiling in symphonic reflection to Dany's own. Somewhere in the hours they spent speaking, walking their way through time up until Daenerys had torn open the burning door to the crypts, common ground unfurled beneath them.

"You've known more kings and queens than I have," Dany admitted as they both reached the end of their exchanged stories. "You know this land and you know the rules of the game lords play. Truthfully: do you think Jon would be the better ruler?"

The tentative connection between them frayed a little, a sternness returning to Sansa's face.

"If you're still seeking my approval—"

Daenerys held up a hand to cut her off. "No, not your approval," she said. "Your _advice_. I do not know Jon as well as you, but from my experience, I believe he leads with his heart and not his head. It makes him a formidable commander on the battlefield, inspiring to his soldiers, but I fear it would make him a poor ruler. That being said—"

Daenerys inhaled, steadying herself for the truth she had only recently found silently for herself. To give it life in words could make or break her path, but her faith in herself gave her the courage to speak: "I mean to break the wheel, Sansa. To do that, I intend to ensure the best person is put upon the throne, regardless of their claim or lack thereof. If you truly believe that person to be Jon Snow..."

This time, it was Sansa's turn to cut her off mid-sentence, a hand held up and a small shake of her head causing her recently-shorn shorter locks to dance at her shoulders.

"I don't care who is on the Iron Throne," Sansa said simply, bitterly, and dare Dany confess it, wisely. "No good king or queen could sit upon it. You mean to break the wheel, but in my eyes, you're just reforging it. But I care not. If the throne remains, all I need is someone sitting upon it who will free the North from its clutches."

_Could that be the truth of it?_ Dany thought to herself. She had, in recent days, begun to think of the Iron Throne more and more; less as a beautiful goal in the horizon and more as a dreaded shadow over it. The symbol of power that offered nothing but those symbols and oaths, the throne seemed silently able to drag all into the darkness of corruption.

"...I mean to break the wheel, not reforge it to bring House Targaryen back to the top to await its fall once more. I thought I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. I realise now I was wrong — I was born to _free_ them, to undo what my ancestors did. When Aegon came to this land, he wrapped it in chains of dragonfire and fear. Those chains have passed from hand to hand, from Baratheon to Lannister, to Stark to Tyrell. I am not here to merely take hold of those chains in the name of Targaryen. I am here to break them in the name of Westeros. So you have my word, Lady Stark...when the throne is mine, the North will be the first to have its chains struck from the Iron Throne. If that is what the people desire, the North shall be an independent realm. But on some conditions."

She could see she had nothing short of Sansa's full attention, and in many ways, her surprise. The thought that she should be surprised by this cut Dany deeply, only serving to remind her of how she had strayed towards a darker path since arriving in Westeros. "The people of the North will choose their own ruler, just as the rest of the kingdoms will. Regardless of birthright or blood. Regardless of being a _Stark_ or not: the best of your people will lead this land. If the darkness should crawl beyond the Wall again, the independent realm of the North should stand with the throne as brothers in arms to defend the realm. You do not need to bend the knee, but you must swear to raise your swords to a united cause if the realm is ever threatened."

In the silence between them, Sansa considered the proposal. Dany wondered which part worried her more; the oath to defend the living, to be united in strength, but unchained in freedom...or the removal of House Stark as the automatic ruling bloodline of the kingdom.

It took some time before a smile fully graced Sansa's features.

"Then the North stands with you, Your Grace. You have our swords against this threat to the realm that sits upon the throne."

* * *

Nothing felt as wondrous as placing her hand upon the door handle to her room, knowing a soft, warm bed awaited her beyond its threshold. Daenerys was weary to her very soul. Gryves had not resurfaced, but she had faith he would find his way back to her as soon as—

The silver-haired woman opened the door, and froze in its frame. The room was in shambolic disarray. Treading lightly, Dany closed the door gently behind her then walked slowly to her bedside. There, lying on the floor in a tangle of bedsheets yanked from the bed, a sleeping and decidedly haggard-looking Jorah Mormont was sprawled.

_How did you manage to get in here? _She wondered to herself, before feeling the sharp chill in the room. Looking to the window, she noted with some disdain that it had been all but smashed wide open, stones pulled and claw marks cutting through the frame. Gryves must have flown here, clambering on the tower's outer wall as he lost his form to Jorah again. Had the man landed in the window, crawled in through it, and fallen asleep...on the floor?

Dany couldn't help but smile down at her knight. Knowing him, he recognised the room as Daenerys' and refused to be as so bold as to use her bed, even in the state he was in. Kneeling down, Daenerys pressed a hand to his forehead to sweep away the strands of hair stuck to his face, covered as it was in soot, ashes, and as she soon came to realise, dark bruises. Her heart filled to see him stir, thankful that Jorah seemed lucid at least when his mismatched eyes flickered open.

"Khaleesi..." He started to sit up, but a grimace and hiss of pain stopped him short. As the blankets fell from his chest to pool at his waist, Dany could now see that the scales had receded once again, but his whole body was marbled with bruises along with his array of scars. Particularly at his joints, angry purple and black patches blossomed at his shoulders, neck, and at his jaw. These transformations were taxing him physically, more so than perhaps he would ever let on.

"You're hurt," she half-whispered to herself, fingers ghosting the bruises along his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Your Grace, no...you had no choice; you needed Gryves to save as many as you could. This…this is a small price to pay, and it will heal."

Jorah began to lie back down, a heavy breath escaping his lips as he did so and eyes flickering shut. "But...if you'll forgive me, Khaleesi….I don't think I can walk to another room. May I rest here, Your Grace?"

Daenerys' eyebrows shot up at the request.

"You may not," she replied curtly. Almost instantly Jorah's eyes opened, and though hurt of all kinds echoed within the sky blue orbs, he pushed himself to sit up, arms shaking as he did so.

"O-Of course, forg-"

"You may not rest on my _floor_, Ser Jorah," Daenerys said, placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him from his worry-fuelled attempt to break himself apart trying to leave. "You are a knight, not a _rug_."

With that, she offered her hand up to the startled man, helping him shakily to his feet and then to sit on the bed. Daenerys considered him for a moment, placing the back of her hand against his cheek. He frowned up at her, blinking tiredness from his eyes.

"Your Grace?"

"You're still running very warm, ser. That's good."

The silver-haired woman nodded towards the ruined window, the gaping hole in the room that was letting in a curling, frozen north wind. "You can keep me warm tonight against the _cold _you've let in to my room."

* * *

The cold air could not reach her as she lay nestled in the crook of Jorah's arm, wrapped in the warmth of dragonfire coursing in his veins. As she slept, she dreamt of her own words, words that had haunted her of late:

_If I look back, I am lost._

Her dreamworld took her to the sea, standing on a great ship under Targaryen sails, heading to Westeros. The sea breeze tossed her silver locks here and there, and though her friends, allies, and advisors were before her, Dany could not hear them for the words echoing in her head: _if I look back, I am lost._

But she could feel the cold dread building in her stomach, the silent fear of looking onwards toward to Westeros. The land that killed her family, cast her out, sent assassins after her, demanded her life and her blood: she would be a fool not to fear it.

Dany always dreamed of the day she would return, but now she was before it, even in a dream it seemed so real. Real, looming, a land of blades that sought to drink the blood of dragons. A land of traitors and turncoats, greed and chains. The pressure built and built in her mind, and in a split-second of self-doubt, Daenerys flinched away as though struck, turning away from the sight of the land before her to look back behind her—

—and there, sprawling out in a huge wave of silver, crimson and obsidian, her blood family stared back at her, a sea of amethyst eyes looking at her in expectation. Viserys, Rhaegal, Aerys, and so many faces she didn't know, yet felt so familiar. She smelt fire on their words as they spoke, myriad voices offering advice and demands in equal measure, all amounting to the same:

**_"Take it all back. Take back what was stolen from us. With fire and blood, take it all back!"_**

Yes. Yes, that was it. That was her strength, her power, wasn't it? Justice, yes, it was _justice _so it would be done: her family restored, all that was taken, Daenerys Targaryen would take it all back with fire and blood. She would burn the traitors to ashes, spill the blood of the enemies of the dragon, make them rue their ancestors for trying to steal a dragon's rightful claim.

She walked among her gathered ancestors, walking away from the ship down to the Targaryens, becoming lost in a crowd of strangers who demanded she owed them her life.

_All that matter__s is restoring the power of the dragon_, Dany thought to herself, half-drunk in the swirling madness and shouts around her, _regaining my__ House's honour_. She felt strong in her belief, felt the power of her Targaryen bloodline surging through her, this steadfast believe that all was _hers _to take, nay, that ought to be _given back _to her. Given back by grovelling traitors and tyrants, but too late, too **late**, she would make them _pay _for their transgressions, she would see them **bow** to her.

_I am Daenerys Targaryen, _she smiled to herself as the world grew darker, ashes raining from the sky, _and I will take what is mine, with fire and blood._

Daenerys let her head fall back, looking up at the sky — it was burned black, raining with ashes, the sight of it filling her with giddy joy and—despair?

Her heart stopped for a moment. Cold, as though a thick veil had lifted. The sky was...burning. And the sight of it broke her heart. There, behind the chanting and demands of the Targaryens around her, Dany could finally hear something else: people _screaming._

In a brutal snap of lucidity, she looked down at herself. She was dressed in black and scarlet red, dressed like a Queen, but not the Queen she wished to be. Her hands were covered in ashes as they fell, sticking to her skin and clothes. Her eyes widened, she began to back away, her stomach sinking in disgust, ears ringing in screams; hadn't she once shunned her family's colours? They enslaved a nation, did they not?

"Dany! Dany, don't!"

She turned to the sound of an unfamiliar voice, frowning as she saw someone pushing through the crowd. Scrabbling and pushing people aside, Rhaegar tore through the crowd, the brother she had never known fighting his way to her. "Daenerys!"

People were moving between them, and it spurred her to move.

"No..." she slurred, limbs feeling heavy as she slowly started to animate again. "No...no no, Rhaegar...Rhaegar!"

She fought back the way she had came, turning away from the ashes and shadows before her to fight her way back to the ship, back to the sea and clear sky, she would face Westeros on her own, but could she untangle herself from this madness? Or was she damned to be just another blood-soaked Targaryen, drunk on power and insanity? Was that all her house was? Was that—

A hand fell on her shoulder, causing Dany to jump. Standing next to her, a beautiful woman clad in copper armour, black hair streaked with white, looked down at her with a stern expression held in pale violet eyes. She had read her story, Dany realised, _the Queen Who Never Was. _

"Move," she said, as she helped Dany push through the crowd, shoving people left and right to clear the way to Rhaegar. As they got closer, the older woman was dragged back by roaring and cursing Targaryens, but not before she managed to shove Daenerys into Rhaegar. Three true dragons in a sea of jealous shadows clawing at flames...

"Rhaegar, we have to—" Daenerys turned, but the woman was gone, lost in the past behind her. Her brother took her hand, hurrying them onwards.

"Don't look back, Dany," her brother said, voice cutting clear over the turmoil as they ran. "Don't look back, and do not waver. Do not halt for us — House Targaryen deserves to wallow in the ashes it made. Rise from it before it consumes you too! Fly from it — **go**!"

Her hand slipped from his and she stumbled forward, out of the crowd, out of the churning masses. Gathering herself, Daenerys made to walk forward, but felt a pull behind her. Looking down, she noticed ghostly chains rattling from her arms, extending out behind her and back into the awful crowd. She looked up, walking on in resistance and defiance of looking back again, and came suddenly face-to-face with her other brother.

"Viserys," Dany greeted him, half-pitying, half-grieving. She had always pitied his obsession with their past, the glories of ancestors in the absence of his own.

"Dany...stay here," he said, hands grabbing her upper arms and rooting her in place. "Don't you see? Our strength is our past, our great bloodline. It's why we're better than those maggots in the filth. It's why _we _are fit to wear crowns and why _they _want to steal them. Stay here...with your family..._"_

His words rang on deaf ears, for Dany knew the truth of it now, the scalding, bitter truth: House Targaryen was as much a problem as any other. Her House bore dragons, but they were few and far between.

"I nearly lost myself in that darkness. This...isn't me," Daenerys pushed him away, unlocking herself from his grip as his wild eyes quickly became furious. "I lost faith in myself. I...looked back. But no more. I'll break the chains of this world — starting with my own."

Defiantly, Daenerys strode past Viserys. Behind him, the ship came into view once more, the salt sea breeze on her face. There, she saw her new family, the family she had chosen: Jorah, Missandei, Grey Worm, Tyrion, Jon, Sansa...

Daenerys smiled to them. She was Daenerys Stormborn, and she was no longer a slave to Targaryen dynasty.

"You are a _Targaryen_," Viserys howled, arms shaking in fury as he rounded on her and screamed at her back. "And you _must_ restore our house! It is your duty! You _owe_ your claim, your power, to _us_!"

Daenerys did not even turn back to look at him, gracing him with little more than her voice:

"I owe _nothing_ to you. To any of you! I forged my own power from nothing but the _dust_ you left me in. I found my own flames, my own thrones, my own strength. I owe you nothing."

With that, her new family moved towards her, walking by her and striking the chains from the Targaryen ghosts that tried to bind her. Still, she did not turn to look back, fixing her gaze onward to the world before her: she saw a world of fire and smoke turning into dark clouds, swirling into a storm of thunder, with rain washing all the flames and smoke of the dreamworld away…


	18. Chapter 18

_**CHAPTER 18 **_

_**-Jorah-**_

It was almost reminiscent of home, Jorah thought, as they broke their fast that morning in the battle-worn halls of Winterfell. The slight, biting chill in the air, and the smell of ashes in the hearth that kept the room aglow and warm. Yes, it was almost reminiscent of home. But not enough to comfort, and different enough to remind him of his painful longing to return.

Then again, the idea of home had rather changed in recent years. Only once he was sent away did Jorah realise where home really was...

"I would fly for Dragonstone," Daenerys said to him, snapping him from his reverie as they walked from the halls in which food had been served that morning. Jorah, of course, had politely declined — the smell of what was undoubtedly good food had now turned his stomach, and he was quite glad to be away from it. "But I worry about Stoney Sept. Tell me, Ser Jorah — where would you fly first?"

A question of heart or head to be sure. Dragonstone was the better defended of the two thanks to Drogon's presence, but leaving Missandei and Grey Worm to face these sieges alone sat ill in his chest. But Stoney Sept was woefully under-guarded with only a handful of Unsullied, and had done nothing to deserve the false queen's wrath upon their heads. Jorah had experienced first-hand the tendrils of her quiet madness — he had no doubt she would grind the town down to dust for even a perceived treason.

And then, of course, there was the matter of Daenerys' Hand. Tyrion had been taken to the Red Keep weeks ago, when Jorah and he had been ambushed within the underground tunnels. He had seen nothing of the man since then, though Jorah was sure Cersei would not have him executed just yet. Tyrannical she may be, but a fool she was not — Tyrion was a wealth of information, if she could access it. By what means, however, would surely not be pleasant. Jorah had little love for the Lannister man, but he had a great deal of respect for him. Leaving him in King's Landing was discomforting.

"I would fly to Stoney Sept, Your Grace, to ensure the town is safe. They had begun to warm to you, and it's important that they see a ruler who truly cares. Words spread fast," Jorah said. "The Northern forces will be returning to their stations; send some to bolster numbers at Stoney Sept once it is secure, and we can then fly to Dragonstone. I have no doubt Drogon has protected his kin from all Cersei might muster."

Daenerys looked at him then, a small and curious smile ghosting her lips.

"His _kin_?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Drogon is bonded to you like no other, but he isn't blind to those around him," Jorah explained. He wasn't sure how he knew this; perhaps he didn't. Perhaps Gryves did. "Drogon and Rhaegal think of your people as their own too. Their brothers and sisters, all standing by their mother."

The smile fell from Daenerys' lips at that comment, eyes losing focus to memory.

"Dragons have far bigger hearts than men, it seems. They can see other creatures entirely as their kin...where men seek to place their own people beneath their feet. Beneath their notice."

Something darkened those amethyst orbs, bringing Jorah to pause. A struggle in Daenerys had built of late, growing in ferocity ever since they had escaped from King's Landing.

"You're losing faith," he observed gravely, his blunt words cutting through the veil and bringing Daenerys's eyes to focus. "In the people you seek to save."

"What if they don't want saving?" Daenerys asked, a pleading tone in her voice — pleading for Jorah to show her where the heart of these people had fallen to. "You saw them with your own eyes, laughing and cheering for the execution of a man who came here to save them. Smiling along with Cersei; what if these people are as corrupted and cruel as the monarch they've sat beneath for so long? What if—what if I'm too late to save them? If their leaves have soured and turned yellow beneath the shadow of Cersei, their roots rotten...no amount of rain will restore them."

Jorah sighed heavily, the inhalation momentarily relaxing his heart and his tightening chest. Daenerys' rage had always been a strength and a fear — turned towards slavers and wicked men, it was a storm that would wash away all corruption. But turned upon the world...it did not bear thinking about. He had always hoped that she would come to see the truth of the world, but be able to look through it. To see the world as it really was: not good and evil, concepts that changed depending on which side of the battlefield you stood upon, but imperfect. It would disappoint her, it would wound her heart, but that didn't mean it couldn't be made better. He had to believe Daenerys would hold on to that dream.

"You're only seeing the world through your own eyes," Jorah countered softly. "Remember: to them, I was an exile returned. I had, by all accounts, fled from my due punishment. Returning was a bold and insulting move to the people of Westeros. Under the current crown, I am a traitor. What would you, as Queen, do if a traitor and an exile returned to your lands, apparently unafraid of the consequences of defiance?"

"I—"

Dany's voice caught. She toyed with something for a moment, keeping her voice held for a long pause, before she admitted, "I...can feel it. My anger. Ever since coming to this place it has grown in my heart and it threatens to consume me. To demand revenge of this fallen realm. In Essos, I saw good people held in injustice. Fighting for them was easy — so few were cruel that were in chains, so many were cruel who were were rich, greedy. It was so easy to see the good and evil in everyone.

"But here? Here, I am struggling to see the people of Westeros as good people. I have seen only cruelty, indifference, coldness; extensions of Cersei's heart. Why should I continue to look for the good in others when they seem so unwilling to look for it within themselves? Is it my duty to find the good in people, or should they already have it in their hands to show me? If I seek the good despite all odds, and show mercy to all, I am deemed weak and soft. But if I set traitors to the flame, I see fear spark in the eyes of my allies — fear that I am as mad as my father. My blood is strangling me, Ser Jorah. It's all they see. It's all they fear — the blood of House Targaryen haunts my every move, it chains me. And yet, if one such as Jon shows mercy, it is praised as heroism. If he punishes traitors, it is justice and strength. He is free…"

They stopped walking then, standing outside of the castle grounds. The cold had ebbed away in recent days, the snowfall ceased, leaving only a thawing landscape in its wake. Tiny attempts at greenery poked through the cold frost underfoot, against all odds of the deathly ice that had claimed so many in the months prior.

Here, Daenerys searched Jorah's eyes, a mix of hope and edged concern in her expression as she asked: "However I answer your question — would you hold it against the madness of my father to compare? To look for any small detail of resemblance?"

"Have I ever?"

She looked away then, a smile finally breaking her anguish.

"...No. You may well be the only one who doesn't. I see it in Tyrion's eyes, you know. I saw it in Varys, even in Jon. In everyone here. They're waiting for all their greatest fears of me to show. In Essos, I was free to be me, to show myself and everything I was. In Essos, I was Daenerys. But here, in Westeros… I am Aerys' daughter. The Mad King's echo. I am unseen.

"Even so, I will not put people in chains, even traitors. But, I cannot bear to see further blood on my hands. Are they my only two choices in dealing with traitors and darkness? Imprisonment or death? So if someone stands before me, as resolute in their belief as I am in mine, and refuses to move...what do I do?"

Jorah supposed it was true. Paint the chains black and call it the Night's Watch, or build them of stone and call it a dungeon, it was all the same sentence. And death had never solved a problem, it merely replaced it with a bigger one.

"You stand firm. You offer your ear and listen to their tale. If they'll listen, offer your own."

"Stand among them, not above them..." Daenerys spoke in barely more than a murmur, no doubt recalling her past victories in Qaarth and Meereen. There, she had walked among the people, learned and embraced their culture, set it free from the greed of men who saw nothing but gold among it all. She learned their language and ways, used these lessons to weave more threads into the tapestry of her own beliefs and path.

But with sorrow in her voice, she added: "...I cannot do that here. I cannot walk among the people of King's Landing, at the very least. I would be executed on sight."

"Forgive me, Khaleesi...but that has never stopped you in the past," Jorah said, recalling the many occasions in which he and Ser Barristan were beside themselves with worry as the Targaryen went wandering through the streets and markets, defiant of the many slave masters who would indeed execute her on sight. "The true issue is getting into King's Landing."

"The tunnels are being watched and my smuggler sailed North to deliver a traitor to the Wall," Daenerys noted bitterly, though it was likely the man had since returned to Dragonstone. Still, the thought embedded within her as she looked out across the land. The people did not love Cersei, that was her greatest weakness that they could exploit with ease. Smuggling Daenerys into the city would be as much a risk as attacking it outright, but could prove far more successful...if the risk paid off.

Turning back to Jorah, mind set in her eyes, Daenerys spoke: "We fly for Stoney Sept, then to Dragonstone. I will have Ser Davos smuggle me into King's Landing, along with food and supplies for the people there. I will not leave them to starve as Cersei saves herself. I cannot demand that they trust someone of Targaryen blood, given the horrors my family has spilled upon their lives in the past — but I _will _show them. I will show them Daenerys Stormborn, their future queen."

* * *

Whatever spell was embedded in his flesh to draw it back from the dead was quite determined to morph him into the dragon, ever at odds with his body that refused the unnatural twisting and breaking. The transformations were always, in a word, excruciating. Jorah would like to claim they were graceful, but he knew well they were not. He would lose his body to a sudden crescendo of pain, joints pulling and tearing from sockets, skin thickening and shattering like stone into scales, teeth pushing bloody through his gums. But by far the worst sensation, one he would never speak of even to his Queen — _particularly _to his Queen — was the feeling of having his mind wrenched from his grip.

Jorah felt ill to think the fire mages of old felt this in their last moments as people, as the ancient ancestors of Valyrians turned them into the scaled fire deities their people would become renowned for.

It was not a thought that disturbed Gryves, however. The silver serpent, agreeable to Daenerys now, bowed so that the Queen, carrying a small pack of supplies in hand, could climb onto his back. Then they took to the skies with a wingbeat that churned the white clouds grey around them. With great speed, they tore across the Westerosi skies, silently guided by the will of the dragonrider.

As they soared, Gryves felt a pang of distraction cut across his focus; the rider had spotted something, and drew his attention along with hers to a place far southwest of their destination. A plume of black smoke rose high into the sky, no doubt large enough at ground level to choke and throttle those near. But the Dragon Queen pressed onward to Stoney Sept, an unspoken vow to return to the skies and head to the south to investigate when opportunity arose.

It was many hours into the day before they saw their destination. The sun arched high above them, a winter sun without much warmth.

Reaching Stoney Sept, his arrival brought fear as it always seemed to. The little people ran through the town, followed by Gryves' curious observations. He watched as the Dragon Queen dismounted, speaking to the people below. Craning down low to hear, he noted an older woman seemed fairly at ease with his presence, though she kept darting her gaze to the side, watching him.

"They passed by here, yes Your Grace," the woman said. "All wearing gold, must be Queen Cersei's forces for sure. They didn't stay long though — said the Queen demanded too much for them to sack the town keeping the Dragon Queen _and _to get to Oldtown. They roughed up a few of us, set a few houses to flame, but nothin' you could really call a proper attack. Took a couple of prisoners, but it was a bit pointless really. You weren't here long, Your Grace, even if we'd wanted to talk we could only have told 'em you really did have dragons. We told 'em you'd gone to Dorne, Your Grace, but I don't think they much believed us."

Dany offered the woman an appreciative smile. The woman had risked a great deal to cover Dany's tracks. The smile quickly turned to concern though, as she said:

"Cersei wanted her army to sack this town simply for me having stayed here?"

"Well, you know her: if you'd breathed near the town, she'd take it as treason on our behalf. Nothin' new there. But seems her forces were a bit thin on the ground and in coin, if you catch my drift. I listened in on them a little — says they had folk going to Dragonstone and Harrenhal too, and half of them had deserted the moment they walked a mile out of King's Landing. Can't really blame them, can you?" She added, nodding at Gryves. The dragon huffed, but refrained from bearing his teeth. He felt the gratitude of Daenerys towards the woman, and something in his own mind recalled her, though Gryves was not sure from where.

"You have my thanks. As soon as Dragonstone and Harrenhal are secured, I swear your town will be repaid for its kindness to me, and I will free those taken prisoner. But I confess, I'm confused — what would Cersei want with Oldtown?"

"Hard to say. Not much there beside the Citadel, of course, and she doesn't seem the type to put much stock in books."

In a heartbeat, the Dragon Queen turned away and was scrambling up silver spines and scales once more. Gryves reared up, neck craning to the skies as he let out a piercing roar to shatter the air around them — partly in reflection of the dragonrider's own fury, and partly in indignation of her leaping upon his back again without warning. An understanding they may well have, but Gryves was far from bonded with the other, regardless of the strange sense of kinship his mind kept bringing forth from an unknown shadow of his heart.

This same whisper brought his wrath to heel, along with Daenerys' own words, and the sulking silver looked over his shoulder at the rider, reminding her silently that his patience was not a given.

"Please; we must reach the Citadel. Quickly!" Daenerys spoke as a Queen, no room for erring in her orders. Whatever anger was felt by the dragon was soothed in a flash of _duty_ overwhelming him — a feeling that the dragon was quite sure did not belong to him or his rider, yet spurred him on to the skies and at full-haste to the southwest of the land.

The journey, as fast as Gryves' powerful wings were, would take them much of the rest of the daylight afforded to them that day. As they flew ever onward, the smear of blackened ashes in the distance grew closer and closer, looming like some monstrous dark and coiling tree over the land. Beneath them, the great Citadel was ablaze in emeralds, the false Queen's beloved weapon to erase those who had wronged her, her poor and violent echo of jealousy to the Dragon Queen's flame.

Seeing the Citadel in ruins brought sorrow and horror to Gryves' heart. The dragon realised too late these emotions were not his own — screeching and falling, the silver dragon landed without grace, half dropping from the air as the great beast lurched and crumbled beneath Daenerys. Roars became shouts, scales became skin, anger became pain as the knight all but collapsed from the dragon's form, with Gryves disappearing from the world once more.

Though his body screamed in agony, Jorah's first lucid thought was to seek his Queen, ensuring her safety from the near crash-landing they had endured.

"Kh—" The word choked inside his throat as Jorah tried to move, muscles tearing and joints protesting. The sharp inhalation that followed was all the sound Jorah gave against the pain.

"I'm—I'm alright," the voice of his Queen sounded away to his left, and he turned sharply in spite of bruised limbs chastising him with an aching jolt. Her clothes scuffed and ash on her face, but otherwise unharmed, Daenerys made her way to Jorah. She unhooked the leather bag of supplies from her shoulder, before crouching down to him and handing them over. "Stay here — I will search for survivors."

Every part of his heart wanted to protest, but Jorah knew to do so would be a selfish request, insulting to her own heart. She would be fine near flames, and she would always seek to save those she could. To ask her otherwise would reflect ill on him alone. So he nodded, though he could not hide the worry in his eyes, and tried to distract himself with the bag Daenerys had handed to him, ignoring her footfalls heading away from him and towards the smouldering ruins of the Citadel.

The bag contained a small amount of bandages, a small skein which, on inspection, contained rum. Mercifully, the pack also contained folded clothing. Quickly, the wounded knight tended to his injuries and dressed, taking a quick gulp of the rum to try and mute the pain. Getting to his feet, he limped after Daenerys, the smell of smoke burning and prickling his nostrils as he got closer to the Citadel.

He had no doubt in his mind why Cersei had chosen to tear it down. To hells with the people and myriad books with untold knowledge held within; what were they in value compared to wounded Lannister pride? Qyburn knew of Jorah's brush with greyscale, he had seen the scarring first-hand — it was no large leap for the wily ex-maester to accuse those he felt had wronged him before his Queen. The maesters here had aided an exile, a supporter of the Dragon Queen, and had not alerted the false queen to his presence there. In her eyes they were traitors all, and in Qyburn's mind they deserved to feel his revenge. Naturally, she had duly put them to the flame.

Because of him.

Jorah found Daenerys standing before the fires, staring at one of the walls yet standing, though it as cloaked in wildfire. She said nothing, he face etched in perfect porcelain, though her eyes swirled with unbridled ire at the words upon the burning wall of the once-great Citadel, smeared in the blood of those who had called the place home.

'_**Nothing is yours to take, save for fire and blood.' **_


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: The good news is this is a longer chapter than usual! The bad news is...well, I'm apologising in advance of the turmoil this chapter may cause you.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER 19**_

_**-Daenerys-**_

The wildfire was beginning to burn itself out as they had arrived, having been sparked many hours prior. There was no use in searching for survivors, Daenerys knew this. No use in trying to rescue the lives or age-old knowledge that Cersei Lannister had burned on something so pitiful as wounded pride. The history of other people meant as little to the woman as other people did. She would see the world bleed if it meant her survival.

But where the wildfire pittered and smouldered to ashes, Daenerys' rage only grew in ferocity. Turning from the words smeared upon the wall, she spoke clearly, levelling the fury in her words to little more than a sharper tone that it would not quake her voice.

"No more waiting. She's had her chance to surrender, more than she deserves. We're gathering our forces, all of them, and we'll bring her precious Red Keep down upon her head."

"Khaleesi, we cannot risk a—"

"_Risk?_ What can we not risk, Ser Jorah?" Daenerys whirled upon him, eyes burning to show just an ember of what was in her heart. "We have risked _everything, _and Cersei has torn it all to shreds. What more will we risk in hopes she still has heart enough to surrender? To do the right thing for her so-called people? She doesn't _care_ for them, Jorah. The longer we wait, the more chances we give her, the more people die."

A pang of guilt slowed her for a moment as she watched Jorah's jaw tense, the only indication that her anger was affecting him. Stepping back, she inhaled deeply, the scalding air assaulting her nostrils and doing little to calm her. "I once said I did not wish to be Queen of the Ashes. And I meant it. But that includes not watching Cersei douse the world in wildfire."

For all her words, for the understanding in his eyes, Dany could still see that her knight did not agree with her current mindset. Patience was not a virtue of hers, that much she would concede. But sitting here, watching this mad woman forsake the world for a throne while trying to prove that she herself was not 'another mad Targaryen' was beginning to fray Daenerys' nerves.

"You need Gryves again," Jorah offered in reply, as opposed to agreeing outright with her thoughts given voice. "Your Grace, if I may — at least return to Stoney Sept first. If you wish to storm the keep, we need to send ravens to our forces to bring them together."

Perhaps he hoped her rage would calm between here and the sept that he could talk her out of this rash course of action. Perhaps she hoped so too, as the silver-haired woman gave but a nod before she felt the presence of Gryves stir once more, their half-formed bond like a whisper in her mind compared to the clear clarity of her shared bond with Drogon. But in a moment it splintered so savagely that Dany felt her head spin with a churning headache, enough to send her staggering backwards. Screwing her eyes shut for a moment against the pulse of pain, she heard Jorah's breath catch in his throat. Opening her eyes she saw his whole body convulse and lurch, as though every nerve had snapped in unison.

Little more than a scattering of scales glimmered over his skin, stubbornness keeping him on his feet even as his eyes rolled back. Dany felt her lips part, move in the shape of his name as her blood ran cold — the scent of fire, the darkness falling around them, her knight _falling — _the world seemed to stop around her as she found herself standing once again on that winter-gripped battlefield, the dead crumbling to dust around her, and Jorah collapsing to join them…

As soon as it had washed over her the scene faded from her mind's eye. She was at his side, having managed to catch him enough to stop him landing too heavily on the ground, but dropping painfully to her knees under him.

The ragged breath that drew from his lips brought comfort to the woman that Jorah had simply pushed himself too far...at her command. Of course he had.

_Of course he had._..after all, she'd asked him too. And he had obeyed without pause, even for his own health. How long had he been running on little more than fumes and smoke, on loyalty and love? Enough to nearly break himself apart, it seemed, these unnatural transformations sapping his strength every moment.

Daenerys felt her arms tighten a little more around him, cradling him close and feeling the prickling fever snaking over his skin once again. She knew they would not be able to leave before the sun rose, at least, nor would she now that Jorah's stubborn facade had fallen to show just how exhausted he was.

Though she was by no means physically weak, Jorah was indeed a good deal taller than she was. Daenerys had a difficult time half-dragging him to shelter within the now-burned out ruins of the Citadel, under one overhang of half-destroyed ceiling that would shelter them from the elements a little at least.

Laying Jorah gently down, Dany shrugged her coat off and bundled it up that he might have something more comfortable to rest on than the flame-scorched stones. The man did not stir as she carefully lifted his head and tucked the makeshift pillow beneath him. Though she had now seen the man asleep a number of time, it still looked quite strange to her. Seeing him without a care etched upon his face would perhaps be quite pleasing, were it not for the echoes of the worst memories in her mind demanding attention first — the awful moment when Jorah had closed his eyes while cradled in her arms, blood pooling from numerous wounds…

Quickly, she shook her head as though to physically clear the thoughts. True enough, the world did not need more fire or more blood. Over recent days and nights, plagued with dreams and nightmares of her ancestors, Daenerys had come to the realisation that little good had come of fire and blood, and nothing at all good had come from it being turned upon the world.

But the world was drowning in blood and alight with ungodly fires as houses marched to the drumbeat set by Targaryen conquerors of old, each wishing to be the next House of History. The world was drowning in a sanguine sea under a burning sky, and the lords and nobles did less than nothing to prevent it. They keenly slit the throats of common folk to feed to ocean beneath them, burning corpses to feed the scalded sky above them.

No. The world did not need more fire and blood. It was crying out for a storm to break the sickening pressure in the air, it begged for rain to cleanse the taint from its lands and for lightning to illuminate the dark. To chase away that shadows that tyrants would have nowhere to hide.

Daenerys had looked back, that much was true. She had looked back upon her family's past to seek the strength she thought she needed to conquer Westeros, for had they not done that themselves? She lost her way, and for a moment, become the shadow of a tyrant herself. She knew now that she had stepped upon the shores of Westeros as a conqueror, and that was why the land pushed her away. This she now realised, and yet, the sight of the Citadel aflame had very nearly sparked her fury once more.

But she would not let Cersei tempt her to her darkest rages. Daenerys would not let Cersei's attempts to provoke her taint her heart with the same sickness that claimed the Lannister Queen's.

Westeros had had its fill of conquerors, crowns, and thrones.

It needed a saviour.

* * *

As the sun broke across the following morning, Ser Jorah finally stirred from his sleep. Daenerys had already awoken hours before, having headed out a little further afield in search of something to eat, though she felt rather awful at having nothing to hand that Jorah would be able to stomach. At the very least she had refilled their water skeins, and so this was all she could offer when the man began to slowly sit up, looking around in a groggy confusion.

"Slowly now," she soothed, placing one hand on his upper back and offering him the skein with the other. Jorah looked a little dazed, as though sleep refused to let go of him just yet, but he took hold of the skein in a loose grip all the same.

"...The sept…?"

Dany wondered if her previous command had remained his first thought upon waking, snaking between Jorah and Gryves' shared mind. Maybe he thought he had transformed into the dragon after all.

"No...we are still at the Citadel. I—I should have let you rest. I'm sorry."

A frown slowly bloomed on Jorah's brow, and finally sleep let go of his glazed eyes to allow them to clear and focus on her.

"What...but I—" His free hand came up to rub away the last dregs of exhaustion from his eyes, then ran down the length of his face, scratching his palm against the stubble that coated his jaw. His voice muffled by the action, Dany could only make out some fragmented elements of what she suspected were an apology.

"I ought to have noticed. Of all people, I ought to be able to see through your armour," Dany confessed, casting her gaze to the ground.

"Maybe you did. It would make little difference, Khaleesi. Had you asked, I would have said I was fine. Had you offered chance to rest, I would have refused it," Jorah responded. "I do not obey you, Khaleesi; I follow you, as the Queen I have chosen to support. And my decisions are based upon this choice I have made. Although, I admit...sometimes I neglect to consider my health in these choices." He offered her a small smile at this last remark, and she couldn't help but smile back.

At his own insistence, Jorah had tried once again to bring Gryves forth. With Dany's anger towards Cersei now reined in, the Silver Queen agreed to return to Stoney Sept and send ravens to both Jon at Harrenhal and Missandei at Dragonstone. They would take stock, await the reinforcements from the North and of the Lannister-sworn houses who had now bent the knee to Daenerys, and then move on King's Landing.

"They did not _all_ bend the knee, Khaleesi," Jorah had reminded her. "Be on your guard — no doubt those still loyal to her will have informed Cersei. Clearly, she isn't one to suffer failure with grace."

The journey back served only to remind Daenerys how weary she was. With this land torn to ribbons, she felt as though every corner of the realm needed her attention. Would that she could simply stay in the skies forever.

But that wasn't to be.

* * *

A multitude of ravens had gathered at the sept by the time Daenerys and Jorah returned. Messages of increasing urgency from Dragonstone recounting their safety, of Drogon's appearance all by guaranteeing their victory against an attacking force that clearly thought the dragons would be elsewhere. Another from Harrenhal — the Dothraki had suffered losses once more, but once again the tide was turned on the arrival of Rhaegal.

Every raven-brought message ended with the awaiting of her command. Every message bar the one she now held in her hands, the red wax bearing the seal of the lion upon it. Another two lay upon the table before her, having arrived at Harrenhal and Dragonstone marked for the attention of the Dragon Queen. The seals were unbroken, but Daenerys believed each would recount the same message.

Slowly, she opened only of the royal seals and uncurled the small parchment between her hands. Violet eyes darted across the words upon the paper, a ragged breath flaring her nostrils the only display of anger at the letter.

Terms of surrender, but not to discuss Cersei's. The unworthy ruler outlined that they had had Daenerys' Hand in their captivity for quite some time now. He was, for now, alive, but the order dictated that if the Dragon Queen wished to keep Tyrion alive, he would be returned to freedom in exchange for Dany's surrender. Her surrender, Cersei noted, would be a merciful one — she would be allowed to return to Essos to _"enjoy her thrones there"_, and Tyrion would be exiled along with her. Either way, Daenerys would leave Westeros — _"there is nothing here that is yours to take" _the message concluded. She was playing her last card.

Did Cersei truly believe she would agree to these terms? Daenerys leaned back in her chair, letting the paper fall to the table and coil up a little. Tyrion was a poor Hand in practice, but she would not let the man remain at Cersei's mercy. True enough he may well have been one of the cleverest men Daenerys had ever met. Jorah had been correct in his assertion that Tyrion's mind was next to none. He knew all the steps in this macabre game of theirs, created clever ploys and machinations, but Daenerys felt Tyrion's downfall was a simple one: he didn't understand _people_. Oh yes, nobles and lords he could play like fiddles and have them dancing to a tune of his own creation, but anyone else would surprise him. They would catch him off-guard with their unpredictable behaviour, and leave him scrabbling to quickly put together a new plan. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. But it was hardly surprising. Though he may not act like one, Tyrion was a Lannister. The son of a noble, born and raised. By his own admission, his only understanding of the world outside nobility was of brothels and his recent journey to the Dragon Queen.

Daenerys would not surrender to Cersei, but nor would she leave Tyrion in the other's grasp. Collecting her things, she began to write quickly to Harrenhal and Dragonstone. Cersei proposed the exchange of the prisoner be made at King's Landing, clearly not wanting to leave the security of her keep.

"Ser Jorah, who has seat at the Antlers?" Daenerys asked suddenly, pausing in her writing to look at the small map of Westeros she kept at the table as a small, makeshift war table. Her knight had been resting in a chair off to her right, tired from their journey and sleeping away the aches in his twisted muscles and bones. Blue orbs flicked open at the sound of her voice, blinking a few times to bring himself back to the world of the waking.

"Ah...House Buckwell, Khaleesi. They are sworn to the Iron Throne."

"Their overlords are House Baratheon, I assume."

"Yes, but they are within the Crownlands, not the Stormlands. Whether House Buckwell would answer to Gendry, a newly-appointed Baratheon lord, over Cersei is questionable."

Daenerys pursed her lips and continued to study the map. She needed somewhere close to King's Landing that her forces would be pooled as one.

"What about Castle Stokeworth? What is their love of their current monarch?"

A moment's pause as the still-waking knight gathered his thoughts, before he spoke again: "House Stokeworth is sworn to the Iron Throne too, Khaleesi. But they are not a large nor well-defended house. Lady Stokeworth is an old woman, and her two daughters are, by all accounts..." Ser Jorah trailed off then, clearly searching for words. He caught Daenerys' eye, then offered: "You know of Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?"

"Tyrion spoke of him."

"Her younger daughter was to wed him," Jorah concluded, as though this act told Daenerys all she needed to know of House Stokeworth's daughters. A thought crossed him then and he sat forward, leaning his arms on his thighs. "Though I believe I heard tell that she was to marry a man of House Bracken in the end. If so, they are linked to House Tully through her new husband. Your Northern allies may have a certain amount of persuasion in Castle Stokeworth."

It was but a day's ride, perhaps less, from King's Landing. If House Tully, and by extension Stark, could open the doors...it would make a perfect place to gather her forces. Daenerys returned to scratching her letters out to her scattered allies, ordering them to leave the stock routes now — Cersei was not moving to respond to the move, it seemed — and head for Castle Stokeworth.

Of paramount importance, she wrote, was that Jamie Lannister arrive at the castle alive. He was to be protected from any and all potential attacks on the road to the castle.

* * *

Dany wasn't sure what she had expected from Castle Stokeworth. A castle in mourning, however, was not one of the possibilities. As it turned out, the late Lady Stokeworth had suffered a fall from her horse and broken her hip as a result. A following chill had been more that the elderly woman could bear, and the whole ordeal had sent her to the grave, leaving the Castle in attendance by the Stokeworth daughters and younger's Bracken husband. They were not welcomed with open arms, but neither were they turned away.

As the days trundled by, more and more forces drew in from Harrenhal and Dragonstone, and Daenerys took time to speak with her people on what had happened, who had fallen, who fought for her until their last breath. Though the Dothraki had suffered losses again, it did little to dampen their loyalty to their Khaleesi, so close now was the throne they had promised her.

Rhaegal had landed first of her dragons, bringing Jon with him. Drogon had arrived with no rider, of course, but brought a shadow over the entire castle as he swooped and settled.

It was here, under the dragon's great shadow in the courtyard, that the silver-haired woman confronted the once-golden lion. Jamie Lannister had been brought to her but briefly before the Battle of Winterfell, a terse and tense meeting between her father's murderer and herself. But the man had proven himself loyal enough in the war that followed. His desire to fight for the living was, after all, what had led him to his disliked title.

She would test that loyalty now, as she discussed his brother's current imprisonment.

"Cersei knows you left to pledge your sword against the Night King," Dany said. "She does not know your blade was accepted."

The Lannister man frowned.

"Not explicitly, but she may have assumed," he replied dryly.

Daenerys raised her eyebrows.

"Why? Had we not accepted your request to fight...you would have been killed or taken prisoner. To Cersei, any result would not see you return to King's Landing."

Jamie opened his mouth to rebuke, but closed it quickly. Eyes darted to the side, before he conceded with a nod.

"I suppose. But if you mean to present me as a prisoner in exchange for my brother...Cersei will sniff a rat in a heartbeat. She will wonder why you did not make the demand sooner."

"By her own actions," Daenerys pointed out, not moving an inch from where she stood before the man, hands clasped at her front. "I was somewhat preoccupied with defeating the dead and curtailing her failed attempts to divide and conquer my forces. Contrary to Lannister belief, the world does not pause for the lion's pride."

This earned her a withering look from Jamie, though a smirk tugged at his lips to show he did, at least in part, agree with her assessment of Lannisters.

"You're going to hand me back to Cersei. She'll kill me for treason instead of Tyrion."

"I don't think she will," Daenerys admitted. "She may want to. But I doubt even her heart is cold enough to murder the man she loves."

At this, the golden-haired man gave something of a grimace and another darting look to the side. Daenerys knew well where, or indeed _who_, his gaze was twitching to.

"I'll ask her about that in regards to the crossbow bolt with my name on it..." Jamie muttered, though his sigh betrayed his agreement to Dany's plan. Sending a man to kill him was one thing. Looking him in the eyes as he died would be something else entirely. "But why risk sending me, a man you cannot trust, to your enemy? I could tell her anything."

"You killed my father. The Mad King," Daenerys spoke, seemingly abruptly and enough to make the other man flinch in visible confusion.

"I...did, yes. Are we to discuss this _every_ time we cross paths? It's not a conversation I much enjoy."

"Would you do it again?"

The question wiped all smirks and all mockery from Jamie Lannister's face and tone. His eyes turned to steel, though not to forge daggers by which to glower at the Dragon Queen. Instead, it was like armour, an armour the man had forged in the years since slaying the Mad King and suffering the strikes of men and women around him who branded him _Kingslayer_. A brand Jamie clearly disagreed with — he had not killed a king, but a monster.

"...Without hesitation," Jamie half-spat in irritation. Whatever he felt for having murdered Daenerys' father, she could see it was not guilt, nor grief. Her eyes flicked to the woman loitering nearby, in the direction Jamie himself kept glancing as they spoke. Far enough away that she perhaps though it subtle, but Brienne of Tarth had not allowed the Lannister to remain in the Targaryen's presence alone.

An admirable knight. Daenerys knew somewhere deep in her heart that Jamie had been right in his choice that day. She could never fully accept it, but the whisper within her knew his action had been the only right choice left in the madness and flames caused by her father.

"...Good," she said simply, the word cutting sharp and quickly from between her lips, before she turned away, leaving the Lannister man stunned to the spot.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, there had been something of a parade on Cersei's behalf as they gathered at the walls of the capital city. Though Daenerys herself had taken pains to ensure that Cersei would see the might she had supporting her, the false queen had brought her prisoner out upon the battlements, in chains and flanked by knights and that brutal creature that lumbered after her like a shadow. Dany knew that Clegane and Arya had long since set off on their own way to find Clegane's brother. That the creature lived yet concerned her for their fates.

Rhaegal had been left at the castle with just under half of Dany's forces, but the sight of the obsidian dragon that Dany rode towards King's Landing on was enough to set a number of Cersei's men shivering. There, the two parties each held a Lannister man in chains. Daenerys watched with some amusement as Cersei's porcelain mask crumbled just a little more for the sight of her twin in chains.

"I offer you not my surrender, Cersei...but your brother. In exchange for your brother," Daenerys called up to the golden-haired woman above. "I have no need of my father's killer among my ranks...that the dead did not drag him to the soil beneath us is a mercy of the gods he does not deserve. Perhaps you can find the reason they saved his worthless hide."

Daenerys felt Jamie stir a little under the brutality of her words, but he kept his mouth shut all the same. A charade, one that was worth more than his pride. Though of late, Dany was starting to see that this Lannister had learned long ago what the true value of that was in comparison to the wider world.

Cersei remained silent, green eyes fixed on her twin brother. Studying him. _Searching_ him. Her hands tightened over the chain that held Tyrion, the half-broken man still bound under the crown's imprisonment. For a moment, it looked like she may agree to the exchange without surrender…

...until one corner of her lips curled up.

"I suppose it's no fault of your own," Cersei said, voice light in tone yet laced with delicate venom, eyes raising from Jamie to Daenerys. "That your father never taught you the courtesy of bringing gifts before your Queen or King. Bringing me your discarded rubbish in place of surrender..." She trailed away on this thought, looking to her right where Euron Greyjoy stood, hand resting on what Dany thought was a sword at his belt. "Euron. Would you show them what a gift befitting a Queen is?"

With that, Cersei turned to walk away from the battlements. Daenerys started forward, intending to demand her return and release of her prisoner, but everything moved so quickly: Euron had unsheathed not a sword from his side but an intricate dragon's horn, banded in gold and steel. Upon doing so, Dany could see Tyrion squirming in his chains to try and put distance between them, his gag coming loose that he was able then to shout for her to flee. Then, the other man grabbed him by the jaw, prised his mouth open and forced the end of the dragon horn between his lips while smothering his nostrils, leaning in to hiss something in Tyrion's ear, a threat no doubt.

At Tyrion's yell of warning, Jorah had moved — he grabbed Dany by the upper arm, urging her to abandon this exchange, that they would find another way to free Tyrion...then his voice was drowned out by a strangled, ragged screech from high above. Daenerys covered her ears from the terrible sound, staggered and splintered as it was, but she recognised it. It was the same wail that had sounded from within the Red Keep the day of Gryves' arrival in wildfire.

The noise of it caused those around her to flinch, and for Jorah it brought the man to his knees, hands pressing against his ears, eyes screwed tightly shut. In spite of this, he managed to crack open one eyelid to search for her, tears prickling, cyan irises flooding out across the whites of his eyes.

Another sound joined the fractured, ungodly cry of the dragon horn, and Daenerys realised too late, _far too late_, what that instrument truly was. She had thought it nothing but a legend, a myth, a fairy tale of Valyria… it could not be real… a dragon was not a slave, that she knew… didn't she?

But they _had _been slaves once, her mind cruelly reminded her. Fire mages twisted into fire made flesh at the beck and call of bloodmages. Others sought to command them too, and to that end…

_A Dragonbinder_. A horrid instrument that could bring a single dragon under the sounder's command. Gryves had attacked Drogon that day the horn had sounded within the Keep, binding him to the crown's desire for him to kill the Dragon Queen and her winged weapons.

And this day…

Daenerys felt the world grow colder around her, the sunlight disappearing overhead as a great shadow cast over her. Turning to look up above, Drogon descended upon her, maw bared in rows of razor teeth, talons spread wide. The black-scaled dragon snatched the Targaryen roughly from the ground, his claws tightening painfully around her. Dany struggled, gasping for air, trying to speak her dragon's name, but his grip drew against her ribs tight enough to threaten to crush the air from her lungs.

The great dragon soared above King's Landing, at the behest of whatever magic the accursed Dragonbinder wrought upon him. As Daenerys struggled, trying desperately to bring air to her lungs to call out to Drogon, to bring his senses back to him, she realised where the dragon was taking her — across the city, towards to Red Keep. For a moment she feared the worst, that Drogon would loose dragonfire upon the innocents below; Tyrion had been the one to use the Dragonbinder, surely nothing Cersei or Euron threatened him with would see him command Drogon to this?

Still, she redoubled her efforts, feeling her skin tear as she twisted and fought against Drogon's grip. All her efforts came to naught, however, as a resounding roar of ignition sounded far below, chilling Daenerys' blood cold within her veins.

Beneath her, she could do nothing but watch as emerald fires exploded across the outer edges of the city, burning countless people alive hundreds of feet below the soaring dragon that all could see…

Daenerys could do nothing but watch in horror as the city burned beneath her, emerald fires dancing in amethyst eyes wide with fear, as her beloved dragon dragged her to imprisonment within the Red Keep…


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Thank you for the reviews — they really do make me smile, I read each and every one. It certainly motivates me to write as well, wink wink.**

**This is the longest chapter so far. Heck. **

* * *

_**CHAPTER 20**_

_**-Jorah- **_

Until the horn's terrible scream trailed off into silence, Jorah's sense were not his own. They roiled and tangled in his head, refusing or unable to come to heel, to make sense of the world around him. He had half-blindedly tried to guide his Queen away, the sound suffocating the air around them striking an unnamed fear in his heart. From the turmoil around him, Jorah could tell he was not the only one affected — men and woman both cowered away from the sound, trying desperately to cover their ears to protect themselves from the haunting call.

The sound built in his head, pushing down with such palpable pressure that Jorah fell to his knees. His whole body quaking, he tried to force himself back to his feet. But before he could, the light faded from the sky, the air immediately cooling under a huge shadow cast across the ground. Only one creature could cause such an event by merely moving. Almost gratefully, Jorah looked up with a wince to see Drogon soaring above. Half-confused, half-stunned by the horn's roaring and dizzying sound, Jorah initially though the dragon had come to take Daenerys safely away.

He realised too late, when those talons unfurled and clawed without grace around the Queen's torso, the error of his judgment, the truth of that strangely familiar sound.

Too late, as the dragon had already taken to the skies, quickly taking Daenerys out of reach. Jorah's first instinct was to go after them, though he knew Gryves would be hopelessly outmatched by the larger and far more brutal dragon — their last exchange had only ended without much bloodshed at the behest of the dragonrider Drogon seemed to no longer be able to hear.

Gryves took a toll on his bones and flesh, bruising his joints and stretching his muscles. Of late, the knight had not given himself much chance to rest at all. So it was when he tried to bring the transformation upon himself, without Daenerys' nearby command nor much experience of his own, Jorah managed little more than summoning sudden, sickening lurch that rolled across every inch of his body from head to feet, staggering him to the ground and forcing him to gasp for air.

The edges of his vision were snaking with darkness, but the stubborn man refused to fail his Queen now. Dragging himself to his feet, Jorah began to limp towards the battlements, only for an arm to catch him across the shoulders.

"Ser Jorah, no! Retreat for now," came the husky tones of Jon Snow. Jorah turned to face the other man, doing little to prevent Gryves' growl peeling from his throat. The sound was either ignored or unheard over the chaos around them as Jon fixed him with a resolute look: "Running headfirst into wildfire or the Mountain won't serve Dany any good."

Jorah turned to face forward once more, frustrated at the truth of it, but offering little response to the man. He could no sooner best the Mountain, who yet stood upon the battlements with Tyrion's chains firmly in his grip, than he could survive the wildfire now arcing up into the sky behind the barricade.

_Aerys' madness has laid beneath this city in waiting of a successor to his crown_, Jorah thought bitterly, wondering if the late Mad King's soul rejoiced to see Tywin Lannister's daughter dancing so well to a Targaryen drumbeat instead of that of his former Hand.

But where the man may have begrudgingly agreed with Jon's observation, the dragon did not. Once again, the silver attempted to surge to the forefront of Jorah's mind, heedless of the man's weary body. Bones creaked as they failed the painful and unnatural process of reshaping, a crimson rivulets shattered down Jorah's skin as patches of scales erupted across his limbs and face. In one fell swoop, the dragon's rage overcame the man, casting him into oblivion...

* * *

When Jorah came to, it was with a dull ebb and echo of the pain in which he had left the waking world. Despite the soft bedroll beneath him, he was far from comfortable. With a shaking breath he tried to sit up, casting a bitter look to the burning hearth within the stone room he was left to rest in. A prickly heat once more clung to his flesh, making the fire in the hearth utterly unwanted.

Then, as his conscious mind flooded back all at once, _everything_ demanded attention. His Queen, held captive in the Red Keep; her Hand, ensnared in the grip of the Mountain; the wildfire enveloping the outer settlements of King's Landing; that strange instrument binding Drogon to its will; and the fact he wasn't alone in this room.

"I'll be quite honest with you, Ser Jorah — I've had a long trip, and I don't fancy my chances in tryin' to make you stay put."

Jorah started a little at the sound. There, sitting by the window with his eyes locked on Jorah, sat Ser Davos. He gave him a small nod as Jorah's attention finally focused on him.

"Ser Davos...when did you—?"

"Got back to Dragonstone after dropping our dear Spider off at the Wall, and found out most everyone had buggered off here to Stokeworth Castle," the other knight recounted. "By the time I got here, you'd knackered yourself enough that I'd gotten assigned as a bear-keeper again."

_Not that I would get very far with your here or not,_ Jorah thought sullenly to himself, shifting his aching legs a little under the bedsheets. His ankles ground, his knees stiff and swollen. It was a wonder he hadn't broken apart already.

"What of the Queen?" Jorah dared to ask, holding the quiver in his voice.

He heard Davos inhale deeply, and flicked a glance over to the man. If he was debating keeping information from him, the debate didn't last long; Davos relinquished: "She's alive, if you trust a raven from Cersei. Jamie seems to think she's tellin' the truth, for what it's worth — according to him, she prefers to play with her food. She won't kill Daenerys without an audience. Cersei's got a lot of enemies, and she likes them all to see what she can do to 'em."

"A raven?"

"Expectin' our surrender. We're leaderless. It'll only be a matter of time before the forces start to wander away. Cersei's armies will strike soon, no doubt, hit us while we're scrambling."

Jorah's eyes narrowed; he was, bluntly, correct in most cases. But the Dothraki would not abandon their Khaleesi simply because she was out of sight. The Unsullied would not leave their Queen in chains and retreat. The Northmen...well, at least one would stay.

"...Can you get me into the city?"

"You mean can I get you into the Red Keep?"

Jorah looked up at Davos again, without irritation or frustration marring his features. This time, it was a genuine and clear plea that brought him to speak.

"Can you?"

Once more, Davos took a moment to study the other knight, arms folded across his chest.

"The Keep is a bit much even for me, even if you weren't gleamin' like a Tyrell's wedding dress," Davos said gruffly, nodding at Jorah. Absently, Jorah raised a hand to his face, fingertips feeling the tell-tale scales over his cheekbones. His appearance fluctuated of late — if he had recently returned from an excursion as Gryves, he looked like his old self for the most part, save for his stubborn right eye that had not returned to normal since his revival. But as time went on, more and more of him remained with echoes of the dragon adorned. "But the city? Aye..._maybe_. If you could walk."

"I can walk," Jorah replied immediately, though he did not intend to try right that moment.

"Maester Tarly will be the judge of that," Davos said, placing his palms on his thighs and pushing himself up to his feet with a huffing breath. "If he gives you the all clear, I'll get you into King's Landing. Even if she wasn't our Queen, I'd not leave a just woman in the claws of a Lannister."

Ser Davos left the room at that, apparently trusting Jorah not to make some escape attempt based on his best chance at success being within the other's skills as a smuggler. The other knight wasn't gone long, however, returning with Samwell Tarly in tow.

Whatever bond Jorah had fostered with Samwell, it became quickly clear that it didn't change his professional judgment of him. The man would not give him the all-clear with ease, and had spent the last hour (or so it felt to an impatient Jorah) prodding and inspecting him. His frayed nerves were starting to waver to the very ends.

Currently, the maester was peering into Jorah's open mouth, a small metal instrument tapping the sharper teeth that had become a permanent fixture at the back of his mouth in the last few transformations.

"And you're still eating fine?"

"Mmm-hnngh..." Jorah replied as best he could. He could hardly explain the need for said food to be charcoaled under dragonfire even if he wanted to, and it was a detail that would do Sam no harm not to know.

"I shan't lie to you, ser: I'm not convinced," Sam admitted, finally letting Jorah snap his jaw shut. He gave the knight a look best described as concern mixed with pity...and, dare he say it, sorrow. "There's substantial tissue damage near everywhere. Your joints are swollen, and though I can tell you're trying to cover it, I suspect you've developed a tremor in your right hand—?"

Instinctively, Jorah looked down at his right hand, as though to accuse it of betraying him. "—_likely_ from damage at a skeletal level. Each time I've seen you, this damage worsens."

"Will I make it to the city if Ser Davos were to escort me?"

"Well, _yes_ in theory, but..."

Jorah was on his feet then, unsteadily or otherwise, and began gathering his armour. "Ser Jorah, _please_, listen to me—I know better than anyone your constitution, gods know I wouldn't say anyone else could manage this in your condition. But I really must insist that you promise me..."

The knight paused, the buckle of his bracer still in one hand as he tightened it. Wordlessly, he nodded at Sam to continue. The man seemed anxious, frightened, even a little desperate himself. "Please...don't let another transformation happen."

Deep down, Jorah knew why. He could see it in Samwell's eyes, and he could hear it in his voice trembling. Busying himself with finishing the fastening of his bracer, he looked away from the maester and said simply:

"I'll avoid it if I can."

"No, you'll _have_ to. Jorah, you're d...th-the changes. The strain on your body, the damage, it's...it's not healing properly each time," he was getting flustered, Jorah noted. He needn't have; he knew what Samwell wanted to tell him. He'd known for a while. How could he not have noticed? "Jorah it's...it's killing you."

Jorah picked up his sword belt, considering the Valyrian steel blade nestled on it. Heartsbane. A fine two-handed greatsword, one the Mormont knight often swung single-handed.

"You have my word, Maester Tarly," Jorah said, turning to look at him with a small smile. "I will return this sword to you."

Even as he spoke the words, a whisper in his head already began to unravel his oath to the maester:

_The dragon must have three heads._

* * *

Jorah had had to swathe his face to hide the smattering of scales, leaving only his left eye uncovered. Still, it was quite disorientating to have to rely on one eye and Davos to guide him through hidden paths and smuggler's tunnels found by the waterside of King's Landing. During the approach, Ser Davos had paused to glance out across the water.

The Mormont did not ask what memory glazed Davos' gaze for a moment before he turned sharply away.

"_Wildfire_. Who's bloody bright idea was that?" He muttered to himself, clearly not expecting an answer as the pair headed into the tunnels. They would not get him to the Red Keep as the tunnel near Stoney Sept would, but it would allow Jorah passage into the outskirts of the city. The busiest populace normally, though many had been allowed to walk freely into the grounds of the Red Keep of late — a generous gesture to mask the human shield they were truly becoming for their mad Queen.

One hand idly rising to adjust the covers over his face, Jorah departed from Davos' company then, thanking him for getting him this far without alert. It would be easier to disappear into a crowd alone, however, and easier to find out those whispers he so desperately needed in order to get into the Red Keep. Whispers of information, of veiled secrets and rumours.

He had already heard plenty as he walked through the panic-hushed district, the smell of ashes still hanging in the air. The wildfire had devoured itself long ago, no doubt as Jorah had been unconscious. Luckily, the fires avoided detonating in a chain reaction all beneath King's Landing. Jorah knew the rumours of Aerys' so-called 'fail-safe' beneath the crown city...but it wasn't until an unusually unsmirking Jamie Lannister had snapped one night before the battle against the Night King, when one address of 'Kingslayer' had bitten the lion's nerves a little too short that he had discovered the truth of these rumours.

_"Burn them all,"_ the Mad King had apparently screamed, forcing his Kingsguard to choose between the king he was sworn to defend, and the people his king was supposed to defend in turn. _"Burn them all!"_

Jorah navigated the half-burned area; parts had escaped unscathed, where others were flattened to twisted, blackened soot. Life was already orchestrating around the destruction, of course, as it so often did. Markets that could be open were open, people were working to move the rubble, and others walked along the street, though with mutters and dark looks cast to the ruins.

"I told you. Dragons back in the world. I told you it nothing good would come of it."

Jorah whirled at the comment, though it was impossible to say where it had come from. Surely they did not think—

"A great black dragon. I saw it myself! Wings to cover the sun and bright green flames spilling from its mouth! Unnatural, I tell you. As if our kings and queens haven't been bad enough lately — now we might get one with a bloody dragon to terrorise us all!"

Jorah's heart plummeted, the conversations he eavesdropped on carving an image of a Mad Targaryen Queen. No doubt this was all part of Cersei's desires — these people have gazed upon a dragon only twice. The first time Drogon had appeared in King's Landing, wildfire tore through the execution ground...and the second time the creature unfurled its wings above the city, wildfire appeared again. It was a calculated step to ensure the blame would be placed at Daenerys' door. Cersei was no fool. She knew Daenerys' strengths as well as she did her own.

The love of the people would not be found here if the Lannister woman had any say in it. Quite the contrary, the people of King's Landing spoke of hatred for Dany beyond that of even Cersei.

Doing what he could to keep Gryves' growling echoes in his mind at bay, Jorah stepped off the main street and into a dingily-lit tavern.

The coiling, gruesome sound of a man drawing up phlegm and spitting greeted the knight almost as soon as he had sat himself down.

"You're thicker than horse shit! It looked nothing like the fire of Baelor's Sept!" The man complained somewhere over Jorah's left shoulder.

"Yes it did! It was bright _green_ fire!" Came an indignant response. Whatever argument he had walked in on, it had somewhat restored Jorah's faith. "What, you think a dragon did that an' we all missed a stonking great lizard flying over the sept?"

"So what? I can make normal fire with a flint and tinder, _or_ with a stick. Who says dragons can't breathe green fire?"

"Green, purple, blue, doesn't matter — that fire the other day didn't melt stone. That wasn't dragonfire, it was pyromancer's piss. _Again_. The Queen loves the stuff. Fancy she's jealous of the Dragon Queen."

"Right, and crowning a bitch who's flapping about calling herself _the Dragon Queen _sounds like a good way to stop the fires, doesn't it?"

Jorah very nearly rose to his feet then, only for a hand to slam down on his shoulder and all but throw him back into his seat with enough force to wind him.

"Careful now, Mormont. Can't you tell these bastards aren't big fans of your beloved Queen?" The rough bark of the Hound's graceless tones assaulted Jorah's ears as the taller man sat himself down at the table opposite him. He carried two tankards of ale, but Jorah knew well neither would be offered to him or the Stark who followed along soon after.

"They're right to worry," Arya noted simply, sitting herself down on a stool at the end of the table, mask of indifference held firmly in place. "Targaryens have never made good kings or queens."

Before Jorah could rebuke the woman's comment, surprisingly, Clegane's voice ripped through the air.

"Oh, fuck off with your rebellion bollocks. You think every Stark's been a noble knight? Every Tyrell shits roses? The only difference between the Great shitting Houses is the colour of the cloth they sit under. All as batshit as each other."

Despite his uncouth way of expressing it, Jorah was quite alarmed to hear Clegane speak in...somewhat a defence of Daenerys. Arya, immune to the tirade, merely blinked and replied: "Maybe. But only one of those houses has _dragons_ at their command. No one can fight a dragon. No one can say no to a Queen with a dragon. She's a tyrant."

"Does a tyrant free slaves?" Jorah asked, his voice a strange balance of calm and yet unravelling with impatience, a low rumble of a growl. Starks were always an untrusting sort, but it seemed since the death of Ned Stark they had become downright paranoid of anyone but their own family blood. They would send men of other houses to their deaths to defend the North, then declare they "weren't one of us" before the fallen were even buried.

Arya's unreadable gaze fell the Jorah then, neither angered nor inviting him to speak further. But he told her all the same, a low voice easily hidden among the ruckus of the tavern to keep his identity hidden well enough as he spoke — of Daenerys' liberation of Meereen, of Qarth, of the once-Slaver's Bay. He spoke of how a woman, destined by centuries of tradition to become a grieving widow for the rest of her life in chained solitude defied her fate to become the first woman to lead a khalasar. How she had answered injustice with justice, and kept her gentle heart even when so many men had told her to throw it away.

In the end, he received little more than a raised eyebrow from the Stark.

"Maybe she did that before. Across the sea, in another time. But not here. Daenerys has done nothing of the sort since coming here. Maybe she was all you say and more. But people change, Ser Jorah Mormont. You're in love with who she was — maybe you can't or won't see what she's become. An invader we can't speak out against."

Suddenly, Clegane got to his feet, swearing under his breath.

"Fuck the Mother and the Crone — I'll ask him later. Finish your fucking squabble and tell me when you're done." With that, he bludgeoned a path to the barkeeper, leaving the Mormont and the Stark alone.

"You're right — perhaps you didn't get to see her gentle heart as she rallied her people to defend Westeros and watched them give their lives to defend Winterfell," Jorah noted bitterly, feeling spines piercing up from his skin across his neck and face, hidden by the swathes of cloth. "You didn't see Daenerys return to Winterfell to save your sister, risking the people who had supported her the longest." At this, Arya's face finally moved an inch to one of shock and concern. Still, Jorah went on: "You didn't see that because you left Winterfell; you left your sister with a war-depleted force. But, the woman you call a _tyrant_ returned. Because the North _needed_ her."

"And the North needs me to finish my duty," Arya countered. "With Cersei on the throne, no one in the realm is safe."

Jorah couldn't help but give a cold scoff at this.

"So...your justice is righteous. But Daenerys' is not? You both answer injustice in your own ways...do you not?"

This gave Arya pause for a moment, leaving the pair in silence. Finally, she spoke again, though her voice was somewhat stiff with reluctant admittance.

"...The Hound and I have found a way into the Keep. We're going after Cersei and the Mountain. If you want to save her...follow us."

With that, she got to her feet and moved like rain through the crowd, weaving so soundlessly and gently that not a soul would have recalled her brushing by them. The same could not be said for the disgruntled Clegane stomping after her, leaving Jorah to wonder if he would be better hidden to simply barge in the front gates than whatever route these two had discovered...

* * *

If Arya and Jorah managed to blend in with the crowd, Sandor certainly undid all that effort. He hid his face with half an effort and a ragged hood, but his stature was next to impossible to ignore.

"Was he there?" The man finally asked his question to Jorah, without ceremony nor warning. He didn't need to ask for clarity on who he meant or when.

"Yes. Never leaves Cersei's side, by all accounts," Jorah replied, following Arya's fleeting steps down a narrow alleyway.

"Explains it. We've been trying to get into the keep for fucking days. More guards wriggling over it than fucking maggots on a corpse," Clegane grumbled. "But half of them pissed off the other day, same day your precious Targaryen got dragged away by her own dragon."

They were getting further into the city, judging by the thinning crowds and less fire damage. Jorah had to focus in order to keep up with Arya's lithe steps and swift feet, and he couldn't help but wonder how in Seven Hells Clegane either kept up or didn't draw attention to the pair of them. From what he had gathered, the pair had been trying to infiltrate the keep for some time now, spotting an opportunity when a paranoid Cersei had took half of her guard with her to the city's battlements to confront Daenerys.

"Won't they be back at their stations now?" Jorah asked, his one uncovered eye darting to Clegane. The man didn't even look at him, but nodded to Arya.

"The little wolf caught a few on the way out...and a few on the way back," he commented, for once, his abrasive tone almost softened by what Jorah thought might well be pride. "All _pricks_ we spotted on the regular patrol of the west gate."

Then they would be undermanned now. Easier to sneak by, yes, but not a certainty. A dent in the armour, and little more.

Jorah's hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword. Clegane had no intention of sneaking by the guards...he just wanted to even the field a little to tear his way through, Jorah realised. As they clambered up the outer wall to the western battlements, Jorah shrugged off his restrictive face covering, right eye blinking against the sunlight. No sense in worrying about frightening the guards, he supposed. No doubt his half-scaled face was of little concern compared to Clegane's blade hurtling towards them…

Indeed, the Lannister and Golden Company soldiers had little time to react in horror before the wolf, the hound, and the bear were upon them, clearing through the throttled forces with relative ease. Cersei had run her armies ragged of late, with attempted attacks on Dragonstone, Oldtown, and Harrenhal leaving her royal forces sorely depleted and infinitely exhausted. She demanded the world of these men, but offering little in return saw little fire summoned to fight in her name. Many of the Lannister soldiers simply threw their swords down and ran at the first sight of them, with only the oath-sworn Queensguard and coin-bought Golden Company offering up much in the means of fighting for their Queen.

Arya's previous assassinations of the guards as they moved positions on Cersei's orders over the last few days had made the job infinitely easier. At least, outside the keep.

"Cersei only wants survival for herself," Jorah said as they drew closer to the castle. "The majority of her forces, as well as the best of her blades, will be closest to her." He nodded at the keep.

"According to you, so will my _beloved _undead brother," Sandor snarled. "Whoever that mad bitch puts between me and him gets a fucking sword in them, either his or mine."

With that, and without farewell, the man stormed into the castle. Jorah had half a mind to call out after him, but his voice tangled in his throat. There was no hope of talking him out of this path, he knew that, and Jorah knew Clegane would not be bought or bribed by Cersei. He would not speak of their presence here, if only to protect Arya in his own way.

"She'll be in the Black Cells. Third level down," Arya spoke bluntly, rummaging in a small bag she had brought with her and bringing Jorah's attention away from Clegane's retreating form. "That's where all their traitors go."

The knight knew she wasn't speaking in venom of Daenerys, but simple knowledge. Her father had spent his last days in those very cells, no doubt of it. "If she's not there, go down to the fourth level if you want," Arya continued. "But you'll only find a body if she's been sent there."

The thought brought Jorah's heart near-stopping in fear, but he calmed it with a single breath. Cersei would not have Daenerys killed in the dark where no one could see her victory. It was the threat that acted as his only strange hope.

"You're not coming with me."

"No," the woman said simply, finishing busying herself with her bag and slinging it back over her shoulder, squaring Jorah with an ice-carved glance. "Kings and queens don't mean much to me. Everyone looks the same to the Many-Faced God."

Jorah's brow creased.

"I didn't take you for the religious sort."

At this, Arya smirked.

"I didn't take you for a dragon."

In spite of himself, the corner of the man's mouth quirked up in a smirk. A fair enough observation, one that caused him to think back on his arrival in Winterfell with the Dragon Queen. Back when he was still mostly himself… His thoughts scattered as Arya shoved something horribly cold into his hands. "Here. You might need this."

Looking down, Jorah nearly dropped what she had gifted him with — a _face_, eyeless and toothless, gawped back up at him from his hands. Perhaps he had paled, as he heard Arya scoff. "It's a mask."

"It's...it's a _face_," Jorah stammered, lifting the horrid, fleshy 'mask' up at arm's length. He could feel the cold clammy grip of sinew on its back, the strange dried skin like leather at its front. "...Isn't it?"

Arya simply shrugged, maybe a small attempt to reassure him. Jorah felt many things in this moment, but _reassured_ was not one of them.

"It's a mask," she reiterated. "An expensive one. I want it back too, Ser Jorah. Free the Queen — if you're right about her, I'll have _that _mask back." She nodded down at his hands.

"If I'm right?"

"Well, if you're wrong...I'll have a _new_ mask," the Stark woman explained, turning her glance up at him. She tilted her head a little to the side, as though she were observing him as a mildly interesting item at a merchant's stall, before turning on her heel and leaving him to contemplate the veiled threat.

* * *

Creeping down to the Black Cells had been awkward, and more than once, Jorah found himself remembering he was wearing what he suspected to be something far more gruesome than a mere mask. Faceless Men...he didn't know as much about them as he would have liked, and he knew more than he really wished to, paradoxically. Still, the mask had, with Jorah's poor acting, managed to help him past a few prying eyes.

The face was someone the guards recognised, Jorah realised. Someone from the western gate patrol…

As soon as he was down in the darkness of the Black Cells, he tore the accursed thing from his face. Still, he did not discard it — Jorah did not wish to test the Hero of Winterfell's resolve in keeping her mask collection replenished.

The silence of the cells pressed against his ears as he held out a hand in the darkness, pawing along the walls. Eventually, he found a torch in a bracket that he could mercifully light. Flames danced in the gloom, offering him a little more vision. Not long after he did so, a thunderous roar damn-near shook the castle to its foundations, dust raining from the ceiling and walls around him as he struggled to stay balanced. Following like thunder from lightning, the hall to Jorah's right erupted with light, crimson flames shot with jet back pouring over stones and melting them away…

_Drogon?_

Jorah ran down the corridor, torch clattering to the floor as he did so. Skidding to a stop by a now-melted cell, the man looked up to see melted stones dripping from ceiling to floor throughout the Red Keep, all the way up to ground level where the scalded path turned, having torn out a wall to freedom.

Drogon had returned for the Mother of Dragons...though on whose command, Jorah's fearful heart could not say. Not until he heard one commanding word echoing above, bringing his blood to run cold:

"**_Dracarys!_**"


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: I am sorry for all the cliffhangers, in so much as I am not sorry at all. I am sorry that the updates have been a little less frequent of late — I have had a few hectic weeks, and it's been difficult to sit down and write/proofread.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER 21**_

_**-Daenerys-**_

Daenerys had not cowered in her cell, waiting for the script of her death to be ironed out as a suitable pantomime to entertain Cersei. Instead, she had done as she had always done. She had _reached out_ with her heart, with her mind, with everything she had, beyond the walls around her. Once, those walls had been her brother, a cage of family duty. Reaching out had simply been daydreams and her imagination, little more than painting pictures of hope to keep herself from falling to despair. Once, those walls had been the age-old shield surrounding the slavers across the coasts of Essos, and reaching out had been to grasp the hands of those trapped inside and give them the means to fight as they longed to, to take their freedom that had been stolen from them. Once, those walls had been the sea between her and Westeros...but then, her reach grew far, so far, that the once-impassable stretch of ocean became but a merely raindrop in the sand.

If Cersei thought she could keep her dragons from her with some dark and demeaning sorcery as a Dragonbinder, she would see the Dragon Queen's reach spread across the sky as wings and bring the sky down upon the lion's small world.

It had taken time and distance perhaps, but she had seen the Dragonbinder's parasitic grip on Gryves fall away not long ago. She had no doubt the Drogon's indignation would shatter its hold soon, alongside with Daenerys' silent call to him. So it was when the roof shattered above her, and melted stone rained in a ring around her, framing a tooth-riddled maw peering down at her, Daenerys did not flinch. Clarity and calm had returned to Drogon's eyes, replaced with shared ire and wounded pride.

He would have his revenge, as she would have hers.

Climbing onto the great beast's back, the dragon obliterated his way out of the castle keep. Her first thought had been to bring Drogon to the walls, to ensure the Scorpions were destroyed before they could be manned in response to her escape. But as the sunlight exploded over her eyes and the world below slowly came into view, Daenerys realised it was already too late — smatterings of Lannister soldiers and Golden mercenaries were already at their posts, bolts pointing to the sky.

But not at her.

No, her appearance caused panic and shouts, some of the cumbersome Scorpions being slowly dragged to Daenerys' position in the sky. It wasn't long before Daenerys saw, or more accurately _heard,_ what they had been fighting back before her arrival:

"_Dracarys!_"

The word was strange upon another's tongue, but the effect was the same — dragonfire, bright burning orange shot with ribbons of green, cascaded from the skies, removing Scorpions and soldiers beneath. Though she was grateful, Daenerys couldn't help the fear in her heart; they didn't have time for this. They had to flee, lest that damnable artefact in Cersei's claws turn her dragons against them once more.

"Jon!" Daenerys called over the flames crackling below. Rhaegal ceased his deluge of fire, with dragon and rider turning to face her. She pointed away from the keep with a sweep of her arm and a single command, "Go!"

He did not argue, and the pair made to escape, the sounds of Scorpion fire from those yet standing piercing the air beneath and behind them. Then, in one heart-wrenching moment, Daenerys heard a shot followed by the rending cry of one of her children. A bolt had struck lucky, tearing through Rhaegal's wing and drawing a screech of agony from the sage-scaled dragon. The bolt did not pass through, however; a cruel machination, a barbed end and a bolt attached to thick chains akin to the kind used to bring Gryves down in Winterfell. The bolt bound the wounded dragon in place, flapping frantically with his one good wing to resist the pull of the chain...and inadvertently keeping himself in place.

An easy target. Before Daenerys could bank around to attack the Scorpions herself, another bolt struck Rhaegal's other wing, finally bringing the creature down to the ground below them.

Below...where soldiers and people had gathered...all ready and eager to witness the dragon's fall…

She heard the people cheering as Rhaegal dropped from the skies…

She saw soldiers working to pull the chains tighter, bringing more to suffocate the sky-born creature to the earth...dragging Jon from his back, his sword felling many but unable to overcome an army on his own...Rhaegal squirming, crying…

Sound seemed to escape her ears, merging together in one thick, solid pressure against both sides of her head, muffling and stifling and sickly. Some looked up wearily to the bigger dragon screaming in anger above them, some dared to _smirk, _assured thatthe Dragon Queen would not rain dragonfire down upon them and burn her own...they were safe closer to poor Rhaegal...a captive...a shield…

The green dragon loosed a plume of fire himself, an orange burst restricted in front of him, harming none at the sides or those clambering on top of him. Daenerys' rage rose, filling her throat with prickling bile; filling her lungs with heavy, dragging breath; widening her eyes with fury and disbelief of the _evils _below her.

People with knives and blades, trying to pry dragonscales from the fallen, _living _creature. People trying to tear membrane from his wings. People simply watching the Lannister guards bind and capture a dragon before their eyes, entertainment for their whooping and cheering. Sounds that brought her mind back to the day Jorah was almost executed amid a symphony of similar sounds.

_There is nothing to save here_, she thought to herself numbly. _I have reached out to these people to save them from their chains...and they have chosen to strangle me with them. _

The thought brought a flurry of fast-firing screaming, whispering, sobbing, _shouting _thoughts into her head like a whirlwind, disorientating and all demanding attention:

_...I would rather be the Queen of the Ashes than Tyrant of the Vermin._

_Burn them **all**. _

_Build upon the ashes. Build a **better** world. _

—_can't you see? Why can't you see? _

_THEY HAVE NO PLACE IN MY WORLD. _

_Kill them all. Burn them all. They're rotten all, rotten all, rotten all…_

—_can I yet save them? _

_...do they want to be saved?_

_They are beyond saving, beyond my better world: **burn them all!** _

The word was upon her tongue. Dancing behind her lips, ready to end the lives of all beneath her. To trample them into the foundations of her better world. She could have done it. One word would end the sneers up at her, end the cheering — they would still be smiling as though victorious, dead before they realised how false their success against the true Queen was.

A single word. One word. That was the power she had, Daenerys knew this well. A single word would set the world aflame, burning and cleansing away all the darkness and evil that had festered for so long. Perhaps the wound could not be healed. Perhaps she needed to cut away these tangled, rotting limbs that strangled Westeros. Save what she could...burn the rest...kill the infection. King's Landing was the heart of this rot, spreading out over the realm. She could end it here…

_...I could. _

_But that's not me._

Daenerys felt the tense muscles of her face twitch and soften, her teeth trembling behind her lips, a mixture of anger and sorrow. A single tear spilled over her cheek as she looked below at the awful people scrambling beneath her like rats, like snakes writhing over each other. They had forgotten — no — they had been _beaten _and robbed of their better selves. Under a queen who sought only survival for herself, they had followed their leader. Survival was all they wanted, and they would strip away their pride, their honour, their _morals _to do so.

Despite it all...whether she loved or hated herself for it...Daenerys still wanted to save them. Daenerys still believed they could be saved from the long line of terrible kings and selfish queens. If only they could see a good and just ruler, for once in so many centuries. To see the truth of the better future within their grasp, if only they fought towards it together with her, and not lying bitterly in the dirt as one person clambers over the rest.

_I am still a foolish girl who reaches beyond the walls with her dreams…_

Such mercy was given to the world, yet not reflected back. In the chaos of Rhaegal's fall, the remaining Scorpions had been turned and aligned to her and Drogon in the skies. It broke her heart, but Daenerys was left with little choice but to move away, silently vowing to save Rhaegal once the skies were safe once more. Weaving from the bolts firing her way, Daenerys resolved to focus upon her true enemy — that Cersei would taste her full and focused fury upon the Red Keep.

She would not risk dragonfire upon the Keep, as she had no idea who may have been help captive after her own capture. At the very least, Tyrion may yet live and be within the walls, Daenerys thought. But the torn-down walls left the Keep without its defences: the Dragon Queen would not need dragonfire to bring this keep to its knees.

* * *

Cersei had lot lost her grip all at once, Daenerys realised as she entered the castle through one of the walls Drogon had torn away. It had slipped through her fingers like sand, and she was scrabbling to keep hold of as much or as little as she could. She wanted it all, and kept dropping more and more for her frantic grabbing.

Daenerys climbed down from Drogon, realising how unchallenged she would be; the majority of Cersei's soldiers were outside with Rhaegal. Would the Dragonbinder be called for? Would the false Queen ensnare another dragon for a moment of power? Daenerys did not know, but already the artefact's power no longer scared her. It could hold but one dragon for a moment in time, and as she knew well: the dragon must have _three _heads.

Her footfalls came quietly through the semi-deserted halls; a few soldiers tried to approach, but were sent running at sight of the black-scaled dragon peering in through the destroyed wall behind the Dragon Queen. But a look sent swords clattering to the ground.

Daenerys took her time, looking this way and that at the Red Keep. Twisted every way — Targaryen, Baratheon, Lannister...power claimed and smeared upon the walls, hoping to hide the emblems of the former kings and queens before them. Daenerys would see an end to that too. Whoever succeeded her would be proud to do so, would embrace the predecessor rather than be threatened by it. Lessons would be passed from queen to king down a line of true rulers, ones who sought to lead and not display power for the sake of gilding their name into history.

She was snapped from her reverie by a heavy footfall staggering into the room. Quickly, Daenerys crouched to scoop up one of the discarded swords, and turned on her heel to face her potential assailant.

"Are you really _fucking _mad after all?" Came the gruff and unchained voice of Sandor Clegane as he all but broke a door from its hinges to enter the hall. He gave Daenerys a despairing look, as though he had caught a daughter of his with her hand in a cake tin, rather than his Queen taking her castle. "Everyone grinding their arses into the ground to save yours, and here you are fucking running neck-first into Lannister swords! No wonder Mormont's got grey hairs..."

"The Lannister swords, you'll notice, are on the ground," Daenerys pointed out curtly, lowering the blade she had picked up to point at the discarded weaponry. Clegane curled his lip in what might have been half a smile, or indeed, a growl.

"Aye, can't imagine why," he said, jerking his head to Drogon's huge face peering in through the walls. "Maybe the big fuck-off, fire-spitting _bastard_ behind you scared them more than Cersei."

At this Drogon gave a grumbling growl, leering in to the room a little more. Outside, Daenerys could hear a few Scorpion bolts begin clinging and clanging against the stone walls, or indeed bouncing from Drogon's scaly hide. There was no rider to try and dismount now, but the bolts still aimed towards him. They could not pierce his hide, but she could not risk his wings being savagely clipped as Rhaegal's had. Feeling her wordless command, Drogon turned his attention to her before taking flight once more, away from the sailing bolts in the sky and evading the onslaught with ease.

Daenerys' worries were swatted away to irritation as Sandor scoffed. "Right. And now that he's fucked off, what's your plan now?"

Turning, she arched a slender eyebrow at the much-taller man.

"You think my achievements were all wrought from my dragons?"

The man frowned down at her.

"You're as mad as your fucking father if you think they weren't. People don't love you; they're smiling at you so you won't turn them into bastard charcoal. They'd let you pull their sodding arms off and tell you they love you 'cause they know you've got bloody dragons!"

It was Daenerys' turn to frown then.

"If you truly believe that, why are you helping me?"

"Same reason I helped the Stag King to sit on his throne, and his little bastard to sit on it after him. I'll help you sit your royal arse on that throne, because I don't want to die," Sandor grumbled, before stomping off across the room. "You want Cersei, keep up."

* * *

Daenerys found the soldiers reacted to Clegane with much the same fear as Drogon. And yet, she felt this was something of an insult to Drogon — the Hound tore these men apart with far more monstrosity than her dragons ever would. Reaching the throne room was pathetically easy; an echo of Cersei's defeat already thick in the air around them. She had had her power stripped away, partly by Daenerys, partly by her people...partly by herself and her unreasonable demands.

Upon reaching the throne room, Daenerys discovered she was late to her own ceremony. Within the room, the looming Mountain stood dutifully by his Queen, and Daenerys felt Sandor tense like a coil at her side. The false Queen turned to face Daenerys, disgust already etched over her features, though whether it was for her or for the man she had been in heated discussion with, she didn't know: Jamie Lannister, standing to face Cersei and his back to Daenerys then turned to follow his sister's line of sight.

Behind Cersei, Daenerys noted to her surprise, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Qyburn was Varys. The bald eunuch, swathed in black silken robes, looked at Daenerys without any reflection of fear or worry — how in Seven Hells had he returned from the Wall? Had Ser Davos failed in his task? Questions for another time, Daenerys quickly decided, as her eyes fell upon her Hand next. Tyrion, looking ragged, beaten, and paler than she recalled was no longer in chains, but standing by—

Her bear knight.

Daenerys couldn't help but feel her heart lighten just a little, a smile threatening upon her lips. He had come to find her, of that she had no doubt. Of course he had…

Sandor moved forward from her side, and in response, the Mountain finally broke away from Cersei's side. At this, Qyburn called out in command: "No! Stay by your Queen's side, Clegane!"

The words brought the Mountain to a lurching halt, the Hound pausing in caution too. Daenerys watched as Jorah's hand gripped his sword at his side, Jamie following suit, Cersei trying to back away without sudden movement that might spur her brother to action. The Lannister man's eyes darted from the distance now between Cersei and the Mountain; was he judging his chances? He had said before he would kill a crowned ruler again in a heartbeat for the good of the people...Daenerys hoped her faith in her father's killer was not misplaced.

For the moment, Gregor Clegane seemed locked between his desire to kill his brother and the demand to protect his Queen. Qyburn had all but stripped the will from this monster of a man, but it seemed such things remained rooted deep within and could yet grow again…

Too late — Jamie's sword was drawn, arching towards Cersei with a cry. Shockingly fast, the Mountain moved to stand between the siblings, a hand grasping Jamie's sword-arm with enough pressure to audibly grind the bones beneath his grip. Sandor took this chance to run forward himself, sword drawn and crashing down upon his brother, the blade slicing through his armour and burying deep within his shoulder.

The man barely staggered back a single step, but turned slowly to face his sibling. Eyes locking with Sandor's, the Mountain gradually, _deliberately_, hoisted Jamie Lannister up by his mangled wrist, the man writhing and hissing to try and release himself. Sandor gave a growl of his own, pressing down on his blade that he might cleave his brother in twain, but the Mountain's free hand effortlessly struck across his the Hound's skull and sent him clattering to the ground without his sword in hand.

Daenerys could only watch as Jorah ran to stand between her and the monster that guarded a now-grinning Cersei, the Lannister woman's eyes sparking with confidence that could only have been born of a finally-shattered mind. If this was a victory, a success to _anyone's _mind, Daenerys could not fathom it.

Gregor Clegane moved again, removing his brother's blade from his shoulder with a sickening _slurp_ of flesh, then turned to face the Lannister man hanging from his grip.

_She'll command him to stop, _Daenerys thought numbly, as the Mountain drew the sword back in preparation to swing the blade at the helplessly-dangling Jamie. _She'll stop him before he can—_

But Cersei's green eyes were locked upon her helpless twin's. And she was, to Daenerys' horror, still smiling.

_She would cut her heart in half to mend her own pride. _

"Gryves!" Daenerys felt the name burst from her throat before she could pause to think beyond impulse. The demand brought Jorah huddling into himself, stepping back with a gasp as silver scales erupted over his body and face. He began to stagger forward, enough of a sight to bring the Mountain's attack to hesitation. Arms twisted, horns coiled, teeth pierced out from an elongating skull, talons scraping over stones as limbs lengthened and, in an inelegant unfurling of scaly hide and snarling, the silver dragon rose, clawed wings flattening the great pillars of the hall barely large enough to hold him.

It had the desired effect, bringing the Mountain to pause before the great beast. Daenerys walked forward, stepping beneath the shadow of Gryves' wing to sand between him and the Mountain, violet gaze fixed upon Qyburn's monster. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to look at the shocked face of Cersei, a smirk peeling over her own face as she offered her precious shield a command, one Daenerys was sure he would follow and betray the Lannister for.

"Let him go," Daenerys demanded, her voice in harmony to the thunder-rumble growl of Gryves beside her. "And kneel before your rightful Queen."


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: I felt bad about Chapter 21 taking so long for you guys, so have a second chapter in two days. Enjoy!**

**.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER 22**_

_**-Jorah-**_

Had he wished to, Jorah could have held firm and refused the dragon that rose from within at the command of his Queen. He could have turned, knelt, bowed his head and asked for forgiveness in disobeying this order, and he did not doubt that Daenerys would not have drawn anger from his refusal. Not if she knew the truth of it. Not if he told her the cost, now that it had finally come to light.

But his Queen did not know, and in this moment, she could see a man's life on the line before her eyes. So, as sudden as it had been, Jorah gave no question to the necessity of Gryves' presence in this moment. The silver dragon uncoiled into the world before his Queen, storm-blue eyes alight as he reared before the pitiful creature that lumbered after the false monarch as nothing more than a shield. As Daenerys spoke, Gryves' teeth bared, thunder spilling from his throat as he leered down at the man.

After a moment's pause, the Mountain released the writhing other in his grip, letting Jamie fall with a crash to the floor. Still, the eldest Clegane did not retreat nor surrender, readying his sword in both hands and squaring up to the silver dragon. Gryves took this poor excuse as a threat as well as any dragon would; his long neck arched, raising his head above the group and opening his jaws to issue a warning half-snarl enough to tremble the very stones of the hall around them.

Only one person did not flinch — the Dragon Queen maintained a gale-cooled gaze upon the Mountain, her expression hardly faltering as she asked:

"Would you really die for Cersei?"

At this, something flickered in Gregor Clegane's dull and veiled gaze. Anger, perhaps, or was it...frustration? Whatever it was, it gave some strange and split-second sense of humanity in the lumbering ogre of a man, some small spark that perhaps the mad maester had not been able to quash.

Enough for the man to crash to his need, armour clattering to the stones. A surrender not to follow the Dragon Queen, not of loyalty nor redemption, but the only example ever shown to him since the beginning of his unnatural life: to survive.

Before Daenerys could speak again, the scraping of metal on stone cut through the silence, a snarling bark of Gregor's name. Sandor had, in the chaos of Gryves' arrival, took up Jorah's fallen blade and picked himself up from the ground. He had done battle with his older brother enough times, Jorah's thoughts merged with Gryves' own to tell him as much. This man had never sought an honourable duel with his brother, nor would he ever receive one. No...he did not wish to battle him.

He just wanted to kill him.

The elder Clegane had fallen to his knees for but a moment before Sandor brought the blade swinging through the air with a roar of fury, pain, and _victory. _Gregor twitched, his fist balling around the blade he still held, and it seemed for a moment he would bring the sword up to meet Sandor's own...but too late. Sandor's blade crashed down, biting the Mountain's head clean from his shoulders.

The armoured skull landed upon the stones, bloodless and grey, the open wound dry of crimson and soaked in nothing but bile and rot. Gryves followed his Queen's line of vision then to Cersei. The woman was staring at the fallen knight, emerald eyes dulled and almost unseeing.

"Maester Qyburn," finally she spoke, each word deliberate and clear. "Ring every bell."

The maester paled, starting forward towards the Lannister woman with a stuttering reply.

"Y-Your Grace, we can still-"

"Ring. _Every_ bell," Cersei finally tore her eyes from Clegane's fallen form, pinning the quivering maester with a look. "The Iron Gate, the Old Gate..." Cersei paused, gathering her hands at her front and staring out across King's Landing through the destruction of the walls around them. A ghost of a smile played on her lips as she listed the bell locations, "the River Gate, the Gate of the Gods...the King's Gate, the Lion Gate..." Eyes flicked sidewards to Daenerys for a moment's pause, even as a mumbled protest began to build from Jamie, who was slowly getting to his feet despite his injuries.

"_Stop..._" Jamie begged, but Cersei continued, eyes fixed on Daenerys as though her own brother nary existed, let alone had spoken:

"The Dragon Gate...the Dragonspit and the Keep. Let the bells all sing a song fit for the Dragon Queen's _victory_."

The maester had begun to scarper away, with Sandor Clegane giving a grunt of irritation and chasing after him. Furious, Daenerys rounded on Jamie, bringing Gryves' own angered snarling around the Lannisters.

"After all of this..._this _is the side you have chosen?" She asked Jamie, venom lacing her words. "Your sister would have cut you apart, but you would _beg _her not to surrender?"

Cersei remained silent, smile now stretching in full across her face as though some great victory of her own was afoot. It was enough to bring Daenerys' anger to falter, and Gryves coiled around the four of them in a wide circle, ready to strike if needed.

Jamie, wincing at his wounded, arms dangling useless and broken by his sides, offered a sideward glance of disgust at Cersei before he said:

"Cersei…has never surrendered a thing in her life, Your Grace," he said, a hint of pleading in his tone. His sister merely offered him a long, calculating look, smile still fixed upon her face. "If she wanted something and couldn't have it...no one could. There is no bell above the Lion Gate."

At this, Gryves stopped pacing, feeling the chill striking Daenerys' heart as though it were his own. "But _beneath_ it...and beneath every gate in King's Landing, the Dragonpit, the Keep itself...are the wildfire caches your father commanded be placed there."

"You'll take your kingdom," Cersei countered, the soft smile still dancing upon her lips idly, almost giddily, as though she were immune to the realisation that this act would end her own life too. "In _fire _and _blood_...just as you said you would. _Your **Grace**._" She spat the last words as an insult, the words twisting and contorting her once-beautiful face.

"Cersei..._please_..." One word from Jamie, and yet, it was burdened with every last hope the man dared have for the woman. She turned to him then, walking towards him with that same smile upon her face, as though they had nothing to fear.

"There's nothing more important than legacy," Cersei said. "Isn't that what father used to tell us? What he drilled into our minds...the _Lannister legacy_. He would tell us 'legacy' is passed down through the family...to our children...to their children...we used to think our father feared nothing, but in truth, he feared one thing. He feared to be forgotten, lost to history. He wanted the lion to roar through the ages, through our legacy. He wanted us to protect it, Jamie, but only I tried." She stopped, inches from Jamie, and raised her hand to graze her fingertips over his face. Her smile turned cold then, shaking her head a little as she continued: "I tried. But they're all dead, Jamie. Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella..." Her other hand came to rest flat against her stomach, her voice cracking for but a word. "All dead. There is no legacy left for us in blood."

Cersei stepped back then, turning to face Tyrion. The dwarf had been silent for much of the exchange, and Gryves noted for the first time that the man seemed to be struggling to _breathe_. Every breath wracked his body, wheezing and bubbling as he hauled air to his lungs. But for all the energy robbed of his tongue, his eyes burned with bitterness to Cersei as she looked down at him in every way she could. "But we will not be forgotten. The realm will remember that the lion tore down the dragon. Houses will yearn to reach our legacy, will aspire to the heights of the House Lannister."

Sandor had not returned. The order to ignite the wildfire caches may yet have sparked among the last of the soldiers. In synchronisation with Daenerys, Gryves lowered before she reached him, letting her climb upon his back.

"Tyrion," Daenerys called down to her Hand. "Jamie. Come — the city may burn, but its people can be saved."

Neither man moved.

"Family...business...Y-Your Grace," Tyrion managed to cough out, eyes not leaving Cersei. "Your people...need their Queen."

Gryves rose a little then, though Daenerys held the command to leave. She did not wish to leave the Lannister men behind, the dragon realised, and he offered a rumbling growl to spur her choice: the city could burn at any moment.

"...Very well. Attend to it, but remember — you are my Hand. Your duty is by my side," Daenerys said, though a tremble almost shook her words. Words neither she nor Tyrion really believed. Still, the Lannister man gave a small bow, all the graces and gratitude of the world in the small motion.

"My last...honour, it would seem..."

With grief settling heavy and silently in her heart and upon her sworn dragon's, the silver dragon and Queen took flight, leaving the last of the Lannisters in the ruins of the Red Keep. The silver dragon circled once around the crumbling keep, watching below as Jamie lunged forward, crushing Cersei's throat with one broken hand pressing against the cold metal of the his other hand. He did not stay to watch the legacy of House Lannister suffocate itself, spurred on by Daenerys' wordless command.

Her people needed their Queen.

* * *

Their first port of call was the spot Daenerys had last left Rhaegal. Drogon had found the silver dragon as he escaped the keep. Flying alongside them, Daenerys quickly asked Drogon to save as many as he could — to allow all who would to climb upon his back and fly them safely from the city. The great dragon banked away from them, disappearing off into the city to do as he could.

Rhaegal was bound to the ground exactly where Daenerys had last seen him. It filled Gryves' heart with sorrow to see the poor dragon, grounded and weeping, wings torn and ripped apart. Still, the dragon raised his head as much as he could under the chains as Gryves descended, sending the last of the loitering people and soldiers scattering. The overlarge, sword-like protrusions of his wings made short work of the chains binding the green dragon and, slowly, Rhaegal rose once more, stretching out his tattered wings and screeching in fury. For a moment, he tried to rise from the ground, but a single wingbeat failed him and he quickly fell back to the ground.

"Rhaegal — please...save the people. Carry them from the city, any you can, however you can," Daenerys said, earning a snapping jaw and growl of anger from the other. "I know. I know they have wronged you and wounded you. And I ask you this all the same. If you cannot find it in your heart to help, then leave. Leave and rest, and your brother and I will return to you soon."

The dragon gave a long look at its mother, before howling and crawling down on the ground. Baring its teeth, Rhaegal struck down at a cowering Westerosi. Before he could so much as scream, the man was gone, lost within the dragon's jaws as Daenerys yelled in protest.

Turning to face her, Rhaegal opened his mouth...revealing the man, unharmed, upon his tongue, quaking and pale. Satisfied he had shown his mother that he was not devouring the people she wanted to save, Rhaegal stomped away, grounded as he was by his wounded wings, to scoop up more screaming people in his jaws.

Daenerys and Gryves could only watch after him in stunned, shared silence.

"...Gods, I hope Drogon isn't deploying the same tactic..." Daenerys half-muttered, before coaxing Gryves back into the skies.

They swooped and soared, though getting people to climb upon the silver dragon's back proved difficult. Many refused, with a number believing Daenerys to be the cause of the wildfires that had previously ravaged the city. Try as she might, warning as she did about the hundredfold caches of wildfire threatening beneath them, the Dragon Queen found few willing to climb upon Gryves' back before the city began to burn.

First at the Iron Gate, then the Dragon Gate...plumes of furious, fervent green flames billowing into the clouds above…

"Move, go!" Daenerys yelled as they dropped a few more people down to safety and set out once again to King's Landing.

As Gryves flew, the clouds gathered and darkened. They churned and boiled around him, and quickly, grew heavily with rainfall. One beat of his wings and the clouds burst, a deluge of rain crashing to the city below. Still the fires burned unnaturally on — they crossed by Drogon in the skies, the black dragon carrying many upon his back and away to safety as they flew back in to the city grounds. Lightning crackled and snapped in the clouds around them, the storm rolling on through the day and night as the wildfires continued to erupt through the city.

* * *

They had pushed on for hours upon hours, even as the wildfires consumed King's Landing and razed the city to nothing but ashes. Even as the bright burning light became almost too much to bear, as the smell of scalding air began to prickle even Gryves' nostrils. They flew even as the wildfires burned higher and higher, igniting the very clouds, until they could no longer reach the city at all.

Not everyone could be saved. And, as they had discovered, not everyone had _wanted_ to be saved. Some died cursing the Dragon Queen's name, even as she reached a hand out to them and pleaded with them to save themselves. Some died thinking their world burned at the behest of an invading Targaryen.

But some did take hold of her hand. Some, despite their fears, followed the Dragon Queen, and chose to live — even if it meant living in a new world, living a life of freedom they didn't realise they had not known. It was not yet a love for the new queen; such things would not come quickly nor easily...but it was, Gryves thought, perhaps one eye opening to the truth, blinding as it may be after so long in Cersei's shadow, and all the tyrannical shadows that came before it.

Still, though it seemed as though Sandor had failed to stop Qyburn, he had been able to cut the order off in transit. The Iron Gate, Lion Gate, Dragon Gate and the Gate of the Gods had all been consumed in flames, but the Old Gate, River Gate, and the King's Gate remained without origin fires of their own. The Dragonpit burned, but the Red Keep stayed standing — Gryves felt the wily maester may have avoided that command to save his own skin, a thought the dragon knew to be the knight within and not his own.

Silver wings brought the queen to the Red Keep once more, landing in the same hall exposed to the world by the ruins of its walls. Slowly, Daenerys disembarked from her dragon, purple eyes frozen upon the fallen Lannister tyrant, her slender neck crushed, with little emotion.

As she walked, Gryves crawled as far as he could inside, bowing his head against the ceiling and coiling in on himself. Growing smaller, scales receding, soon claw-scraping was replaced by feet padding against stones. More accurately, Jorah stumbled across them, feeling the world lurch around him. He felt sick, as though soot and ash filled his lungs and stomach, and his eyes fluttered closed against the sweeping tiredness that threatened to claim him.

A cool hand against his cheek brought blue eyes flickering open to look at Daenerys.

"I'm sorry," she said in earnest. "To ask you to become Gryves without warning, I—"

Jorah placed his own hand over Daenerys', shaking his head.

"Gryves is sworn to you, as am I," the knight replied. "Whichever my Queen needs a her side."

A look of relief lasted but a moment, before Daenerys spoke with more than a little light jest in her tone.

"Well then, in this moment, I need _you_ by my side, Ser Jorah. For I am about to take the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms, and it remains as true now as ever it did — I need you by my side for this. But," she let her hand slip away from his face then, her smile now mischievous. "I need my knight _clothed _for the occasion."

The Mormont felt the skin of his face burn crimson in a flash, and he looked away sharply. His supplies, the mask Arya had given him, the bundle of cloth to mask his face; he had left it all securely down in the cells prior to encountering Tyrion. The Hand had managed to escape his chains thanks to the arrival of Jamie and a number of Daenerys' forces who had set upon the keep in search of their stolen Queen, carried upon the daring wings of Rhaegal who had avoided Scorpion fire in the risky attempt.

"Ah, o-of course. Apologies, Your Grace. I er..." Face still aflame, the knight darted from sight, heading down to the cells to retrieve his belongings, including the spare clothing he now didn't leave without. Jorah returned to the hall a short while later, feeling far less exposed and much more like himself in dark trousers and a simple, cotton shirt. Still, something was missing, causing the knight's eyes to scan the room in confusion. Not merely his armour, but…

"Clegane has your sword, I believe," Daenerys greeted him, knowing all to well that her knight likely felt without a limb with his sword missing. "It was necessary."

Jorah nodded once, hoping the Hound hadn't lost the Tarly blade. He may have been loose upon his oath to Samwell not to transform again, but the least he could would be to return his blade.

"It's almost time, Khaleesi," Jorah noted, bowing his head a little to the Queen. "The throne is close."

Perhaps he imagined it, but something of sorrow and a little disappointment tinged Daenerys' voice as she said:

"Yes..."

It seemed for a moment as though she would say something more, that words welled upon her tongue. But she did not give them sound, and instead, turned to walk towards the great doors that would lead, finally, to her victory.

Jorah made to follow, catching up with his Queen and pushing forth the oak doors. Though damage had come to the Red Keep in droves, the throne room was still a sight to behold. Great pillars rising to the ceiling above, a room wrought of white and grey stones and…

...crimson.

Rivulets of blood splintered the stones underfoot, flowing from the foot of the Iron Throne. Lying prone at the foot of the throne was Jamie Lannister — unmoving, and from this distance, it was impossible to tell if he was breathing. Two black boots were resting upon his fallen form, crossed at the ankles, as a man sat leisurely upon the Iron Throne, beaming broadly. As Daenerys entered he leaned forward in his seat, pushing his weight into the Kingslayer who flinched and gave a hiss of pain.

Euron Greyjoy nodded down at the man under his boots.

"Killed the Queen, he did," he offered by means of explanation as the Dragon Queen approached. "And this throne was looking awfully cold while you were off saving the smallfolk. Commendable, but...well, there's no prize for second place."

He leaned back in his seat then, a self-styled King who had claimed the throne no sooner than Cersei had fallen to the stones beneath. Standing slightly behind him and beside the throne, a still-silent Varys watched, his hand firmly on Tyrion's shoulder. The dwarf looked as worse for wear as ever, his eyes darting from worrying over Jamie to throwing daggers at Euron. The Greyjoy jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Varys. "Little bird of his told me you were sending him to the Wall. But he's _awful _useful this one. Made sure the right doors were open, the Scorpions were undermanned...led Jamie right to Cersei and her lumbering dog. I barely had to lift a finger and between you and me, I didn't fancy fighting the Mountain much. Still, one man's trash and all that." Euron shifted in his seat, looking over his shoulder at Varys. "You'll make a decent Hand, I reckon."

Instinctively, Jorah's hand went to his side, only to remember his sword was away with the other Clegane brother. Euron looked back to them, grey eyes noting the problem of the weaponless knight with a smirk.

Daenerys studied Euron calmly, before finally, she spoke.

"I am here to claim my throne and my crown. I wasn't aware I would receive a court jester as well."

Euron grinned wide, teeth flashing and eyes sparkling with something more than mere mischief.

"Sorry, love. I know you've had a long journey but..." He nodded towards the door. "Unless you're going to send your swordless old knight to try and remove me, I'm afraid I've won this game."

Daenerys didn't move.

"My knights do not deal with fools," she said, as the air around them suddenly _rumbled _and began to coil like thunder. Suddenly, the western wall was torn away — no, _melted _away by a jet of fire laced with black flames of the night sky itself. When they relinquished, Drogon's snarling face pushed through the smouldering fire, clinging to the wall of the castle and clambering in through the hole he had created to leer into the throne room, the bulk of his body still wrapped around the Red Keep.

Before Euron could react, the eastern wall fell away to forest-green flames wrapped in autumn orange. There, Rhaegal emerge from the fire, shatter wings scrambling up the stones and allowing the dragon into the throne room as well, his tail snaking around the tower to anchor himself in place. Upon his back, Jon nodded down to Daenerys.

Strangely, Euron erupted with laughter. A howling, whooping sound that sent tears down his face as he pushed his feet down cruelly upon Jamie.

"Oh, is it a new game then?" He asked, voice strained from laughing. "The one with the most dragons gets the crown, is that it?"

He unbuckled something from his belt that — the cursed artefact, the dragon horn that had made light of the dragons' pride. Both Drogon and Rhaegal hissed in frustration at the sight of it, and Jorah felt an echo of Gryves' anger tense his own jaw.

"I am Daenerys Stormborn, and my blood is not of merely of fire, but lightning, tempests, and thunder," Daenerys spoke, with no fear or concern in her voice. "Stealing a single dragon for yourself will not save you from my storm, Pretender."

Euron's laughter ground to a halt so suddenly it was as if his neck had snapped and life had left him. Then, his eyes were trained upon Daenerys once more, as blank as beasts' and darker than the ocean's depths.

"_One_ dragon?" He asked, his voice still rumbling low with laughter and mockery, "Is that what you believe?"

* * *

**AN: Following my notes/planning/structure, the next chapter will be the last. Unless I get carried away and it gets too long and I need to split it, of course (which does happen sometimes). **

**Stay tuned! **


	23. Chapter 23

_**CHAPTER 23**_

_**-Daenerys-**_

Daenerys had never been closer to her goal, and yet, the distance from her to the throne spiralled out like a winding road built from the path she thought ought to lie behind her. She had walked through flames, through blades, through betrayal. She had crossed seas of saltwater and of grass and dirt, and she had flown across clear skies and storms. She had endured the blizzard of death and the fires of life. She had come this far, not only for faith in herself but in those around her. Some were yet standing today. Others had given their lives, given _everything _to place their last and brightest hope upon her crown.

Daenerys Stormborn had carried these hopes with her, and though she had stumbled upon the path once or twice, she had not let any of these precious and delicate treasures tumble to the floor and shatter at her feet.

She would be damned before she let the likes of Euron Greyjoy dash the hopes from her hands like mere glass trinkets upon the stones.

"You could have all the magic left in this barren world, Euron Greyjoy," Daenerys said. "But you would never be able to truly command a dragon. No one can."

Left and right of her, Drogon and Rhaegal stirred, their growls entwining in the air above them. "You think they are just beasts awaiting orders? That they have forgotten the insult you have brought to their doors? That the only reason you yet breathe before them is because of _my _presence?" At this, Drogon riled up, dark spines quaking, fire dancing in his mouth and he brought his ferocious and barely-restrained anger down at the man upon the throne. "I have played this game of thrones for too many years, Euron Greyjoy — but I will be sporting."

The Targaryen stepped forward then, gesturing with an open palm towards Euron and smiling, though no warmth reached her cloud-cold eyes. "If you can bring Dragonbinder to your lips before Drogon has his revenge upon you...the throne is yours. You have my word, I will speak not a word. I will issue no commands. See for yourself what a dragon truly is."

The man did not move, though Dragonbinder remained in his hand. The confidence that held him flitted away, and he turned sharply to Varys, fury dancing in grey-green eyes.

"..._You_...why haven't you—?"

The eunuch gave a small smile, his hands shifting from where they were folded within his sleeves. There, glinting in the setting sun, the golden bands of a Dragonbinder glimmered in Varys' grip.

_A second?_ Daenerys felt her heart grow cold. Two Dragonbinders...even if Euron had lied about being able to command both with a single horn, two would certainly aid him. But not before her two dragons stuck to kill the both of them; of that, she had no doubt.

"Your Grace," Varys spoke, and for a moment, Daenerys thought the traitor spoke to Euron. But as she looked, he was facing her. "You have nothing to fear."

"_Nothing to fear? _This was your fucking plan, eunuch, _you_ were supposed to use it!" Euron rose from the throne turning to Varys and pointing his back to the Dragon Queen and advancing upon Varys, a fist clawing at the other man's collar. He threw the Dragonbinder he had been holding to the side as he walked, and it shatteredupon the stones.

_A replica? _Daenerys watched as the false dragon horn smashed to bits, a weak and feeble reflection of a true dragon's horn. Euron had drawn the attention of the dragons that Varys would be able to use the real horn, then, to bring them to heel from the shadows. Then why—

Varys smiled sweetly, bowing his head a little to Euron ,who towered over him, breathing heavily like a wounded beast.

"I did use it. It's been _very _useful," Varys assured him. Quick as a viper in the sand, the eunuch's hands moved, drawing a concealed dagger from the hollow of the Dragonbinder. Before Euron could so much as inhale, the blade sang out across his throat, veiling Varys in crimson and winding the Greyjoy's neck in a matching hue.

A squeaking gargle blossomed both at Euron's lips and the open wound upon his throat, brown drawing together ever so slightly in confusion. His grip loosened, and only then did Varys move once more. Calmly, he threw the real Dragonbinder aside, the horn clanging against the stone floor as if steel had struck it, then brought his free hand up to his jaw.

To Daenerys' horror, the Spider _peeled _his face away, and she nearly turned from the gruesome sight until she realised there was a face beneath...a familiar face.

Arya Stark stood before a swaying Euron, no joy nor sorrow colouring her eyes as she watched the man die with an indifferent curiosity. Soon, his life's blood left him, and Euron Greyjoy crumpled to the floor at her feet. Swiftly, she stepped over the body, sheathing her dagger and moving directly towards Jorah. Daenerys couldn't find the words, but Drogon and Rhaegal both growled and leered in concern for what the strange assassin had in store for Jorah. But, with an empty palm, Arya held her hand out to the knight, brow raised a little in expectation.

Jorah, looking a little stunned himself, jolted a little as he finally began to move. Rummaging in the bag he had brought with him from the cells, he produced what looked like a mask made of flesh similar to the Varys-faced mask Arya herself held.

At this, she smiled.

"Varys was already making his way back from the Wall he moment he was left there," she spoke, then turned to face Daenerys. "Just as well. His letters to Cersei made it easier for me once I had his face."

Dany found her voice then, to ask a single question.

"Why?"

Arya considered her for a long time, a gaze like ghosts piercing through Daenerys' heart. Dany refused to waver for it, but silently confessed that the Stark did stir a chilling sense of dread — not for what she could clearly do, but for the questions surrounding how a woman could become so _indifferent _to dealing death like a merchant.

"I haven't seen true faith before," Arya said simply, jerking her head to Jorah. "But I think it looks like that. It doesn't matter who sits on the throne at the end of the day...but the day hasn't ended yet. Why not enjoy it?"

At that, she made for the great oak doors to leave, pausing only as she passed by Daenerys. "The North remembers...the people who stood with them."

With that, Arya Stark slipped away into the shadows, offering a single nod to Jon over her shoulder before she slipped out the door and out of sight. Daenerys considered her long after she departed; Arya Stark was death dancing among life, and yet...she couldn't help but feel a bond to the strange woman who dealt her cold blade to those who thought their armour so perfect in shielding them against any payment of their cruelty.

Rhaegal stirred, causing Daenerys to look up. Jon was staring at the door too, then moved to try and see outside the castle.

"Go," Daenerys smiled over to him, nodding to Rhaegal as well. "You can still catch her."

"Your Grace, my place is—"

"Where you wish it be."

Their eyes locked for just a moment, but it was enough to see the truth laid bare between them. He was a Targaryen in blood, but a Stark by heart. Through and through, the wolf howled within Jon Snow, and it warmed not to fire but to the comfort of the pack.

They were fire and ice, bound in blood across a dizzying distance of opposite ends of the world. A strange destiny, it was true, but one that would balance this crumbling world.

With a grateful nod, Jon brought Rhaegal around and the sage-scaled dragon began its descent down the Keep and out of sight.

The silver-haired woman looked then to the foot of the throne. Tyrion had long since moved, kneeling at his brother's side with his head cradled in his arms. They were speaking, but of what, Daenerys could not say.

"Ser Jorah...please help Lord Tyrion move Ser Jamie before Drogon."

Her bear knight moved, bringing Jamie up to his feet with ease and slinging the man's arm over his shoulder. Daenerys heard Jorah's low rumble of a voice address Tyrion as the Lannister got unsteadily to his own feet, but the Hand only muttered in response. Together, they moved away from the throne to stand at Drogon's side.

Daenerys stood before the Iron Throne, alone. She had imagined the throne, of course, though she had imagined such an awe-inspiring structure. Made of heroic swords, silver and gleaming. Nothing ever matched her dreams entirely, she thought to herself. So close she was to her years-long conquest coming to an end, and yet, for the first time...Daenerys felt nothing for it. The prospect of a crown, of being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms...it was not a title that brought pride to her heart.

_Daenerys of the House Targaryen, First of her Name, _she thought as she ascended to the foot of the throne. A broken house to be sure, but with souls yet to be proud of; Rhaegar, Rhaenys, Jon.

_The Unburnt…_her first achievement, her first act of faith in herself after a lifetime of self-doubt, Daenerys embraced this title with more than mere pride.

_Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men…_as she walked around the throne, she let her eyes drift to Ser Jorah. Jorah the Andal. Their journey had been joyous, painful, astounding, and heart-breaking. And now, it was reaching its end.

_Queen of Meereen…_the fight for freedom had been long and exhausting, but Daenerys did not once wish to abandon the pursuit. Freedom was, after all, the foundation of her conquest, was it not?

_Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea…_the first woman not to command the Dothraki, but inspire them to follow her. They had travelled such distances unheard of in Dothraki history. She was not so much proud of herself in this, but proud of her khalasar.

_Protector of the Realm…_Daenerys let her hand drag across the sharp blades protruding from the Iron Throne's arms as she circled it. Swords were not a weapon she had ever grown to love. Would this mangled metal chair really be the symbol of a realm protected? Could it ever be free of its blood-soaked history? Did this old relic, the epitome of the old world Daenerys sought to destroy, have a place in her new world?

_Breaker of Chains…_Daenerys paused in front of the throne, standing before it, feet brushing close but not moving to sit herself upon it. This throne was not built merely of swords that could be seen, but so many unseen chains wrapping it through the years and eons behind it.

_Mother of Dragons…_

Daenerys turned away from the Iron Throne, looking towards Drogon. The being looked back, a humming-grumble curling up from his throat. She looked to Jorah — there was confusion in his look, but no questions to his Queen's actions as she stepped away from the throne and walked towards her dragon and her bear.

"..._**Dracarys**__,_" Daenerys whispered, her eyes not leaving Jorah's. She would destroy this venomous dream, this corruption that fed the darkness of Westeros. She would be the strength of the people of this realm and destroy the throne that had wronged them for so long. She would be their strength...as he would be hers.

Drogon's flames spewed forth, filling the room with an impossible heat and scorching the Iron Throne. The swords wilted like flowers in the summer sun, the metal turning to liquid so quickly that it was as if the throne had never existed.

By the time Daenerys reached Jorah, the tears in her eyes had fallen over her cheeks.

She would not look back at what remained of the Iron Throne. She would not look back at her birthright in flames behind her. She would not bear spectacle to her own sacrifice.

Daenerys only looked forward, to the terrifying dawn she had called forth and wonderful new world she would build. With her knight by her side and her dragons in the skies.

Beneath her silent tears, Daenerys — the Last of House Targaryen, the Last of her Name, and the Last Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the First Protector of the Realm —smiled.

* * *

In the days that followed, Westeros began the slow journey to breaking its chains. These chains had been forged through centuries, and wound thick and tightly around the realm. It would take more than a melted throne to undo them...but for a moment, at least, they were loosened and the realm could _breathe _something purer than the fetid bile that spilled from the crown.

The Age of the Iron Throne was over, and the Seven Kingdoms were no more; united in strength, yet free to their own command. The first and only decree of the Dragon Queen upon these kingdoms was that the people of each kingdom would choose their own kings and queens. Daenerys heard tell that the first kingdom to bring its Queen to a throne was the North — Queen Sansa would see her coronation in the days to come, and in many ways, Daenerys was glad. Sansa was undoubtedly a fine ruler, but for her heart and not her blood. This only served to prove Daenerys' faith in this notion.

Rhaegal, she learnt by raven, was slowly healing — at Jon's request, Daenerys had agreed for the green-scaled dragon to remain with his rider for now. When his wings were healed, Jon and Arya planned to fly west, to find what lands lay beyond the seas. Daenerys knew such a journey would speak to the wild heart of Rhaegal, and so, she would endure the yearning to see him again if it meant his happiness.

As for herself, Daenerys had suddenly felt the wider world stretching out before her with staggering enormity. She had travelled so far around the world to reach the Iron Throne, only to realise she was as shackled to it as anyone else. Now, free of its silent draw, Daenerys was free to embark upon the world. Dany decided she would remain the Dragon Queen, and the skies would be her throne. She would be Protector of the Realm, and she would watch over each kingdom without interference — unless the cry of the people reached her, if injustice rose its head once more, or chains began to snake among the small-folk.

"Khaleesi...are you ready?"

Daenerys looked up from where she had been sitting, back against a great oak tree, looking out across the sea. In her fingers, she toyed with the brass pin that signified the Hand of the Queen. There was no such office now, but Daenerys could not bring herself to part with it. Her memento of her late Hand…

_Tyrion_...the man had revealed the truth of the Dragonbinder's cost in the weeks the followed the Iron Throne's downfall. No maester could save him from the burning that slowly crept through his lungs, the ashes choking him. But the man showed little grief as the news came to him. He had apologised to Daenerys for using the artefact, spurred by the threat of either commanding Drogon in the moment or seeing wildfire ignite under King's Landing. He said he ought to have known the wildfire would be sparked regardless...but he had hoped Cersei's humanity would stretch at least to honour her word to him.

"Another mistake," Tyrion had noted sullenly. "I fear I am...not quite as good at this game...as I thought..."

But he had not died with grief and self-pity in his heart. In the end, the man confessed a strange story he had said he once told Viserion and Rhaegal — that, as a child, he had once asked for a dragon for his nameday present, only to be mocked and scorned.

Daenerys ensured Tyrion's wish was, at last, fulfilled. She had brought him to Drogon, climbed upon the black-scaled dragon's back all but cradling Tyrion in her arms, and brought him by dragon-flight to the skies. His sight of the world could only have been a beautiful one, seeing the land stretching out below him, his last breath the purest it could ever be, and wrapped around a warm and true smile Daenerys had realised then she had never seen upon Tyrion's face until the moment.

Daenerys let her hand coil up around the badge, and she stuffed it a pouch upon her belt before getting to her feet. She couldn't help but smile as she saw Jorah approach — they had spent the last few days on Bear Island, the knight having finally returned home as he had prayed to do for so long.

The island was beautiful, slightly reclaimed by nature in the absence of House Mormont. It was not lost on Daenerys that something of a mournful look had clung to Jorah's expression in the days they spent there, and before long, he had requested that they leave. She knew the feeling well enough herself; the horrible truth that loneliness is never left behind from one place to another. No, Daenerys thought, as Jorah's arms came to rest around her, bringing her close to his warm embrace, loneliness could not be outrun. But it could be banished by another.

"Beyond Westeros...do you think there are lands further than this?" Daenerys asked, resting her cheek lightly against his chest.

"No one would begrudge you resting, Khaleesi. You've travelled far, and saved so many," Jorah replied, a hand brushing lightly to tuck a stray strand of silver-white hair behind her ear. "But if you command it, I will stay by your side. If you wish to see more of this world, Gryves will take you there."

Daenerys pulled away from Jorah then, her heart twisting uncomfortably. She had learnt from Samwell, after the maester's unveiled concern for Jorah found him dashing towards the man at first sight, of the toll Gryves was taking upon her knight. It broke her heart to think she had had a hand in this apparent curse, and that Gryves would remain buried within Jorah's blood, unable to take to the skies in fear of harming him further.

"I would not ask it. I will not lose you again."

This earned a slow sigh from Jorah, though Daenerys was quite sure she heard a grateful air within it.

"Then...perhaps we have a chain left to strike asunder here in Westeros before we set our sights further afield."

She looked up at this, amethyst eyes meeting blue.

_Of course_, Daenerys thought to herself. Had she not said it countless times before? A dragon is not a slave and yet, one remained shackled before their very eyes. The silver dragon and Jorah both deserved the be free, to exist in the new world Daenerys had made the first steps towards creating.

Above them, hearing the call of the Dragon Queen, Drogon circled above Bear Island, wingspan casting shadows across the land as the great being came to land beside them.

"Our freedom," Daenerys said, reaching up on the tips of her toes to bring her lips closers to Jorah's. "We'll find it together."

* * *

**AN: Thank you to each and every one of you for following, reading, and reviewing this unexpectedly novel-length fanfiction from beginning to end. I do hope you enjoyed it, and that it lived up to your expectations. **

**I have deeply enjoyed writing this, and I can only hope it does justice to a ship I love dearly. **

**Thank you again, everyone! **

**\- Lord Turnip **


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